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2
OUR BOYS
Profusely Illustrated.
1904
OUR BOYS 3
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Our Boys, by Various
1904 4
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Our Boys, by Various
1904 5
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Our Boys, by Various
A YOUNG SALT.
Of always acquiescing;
M.E.B.
ll children have wondered unceasingly from their very first Christmas up to their very last
Christmas, where the Christmas presents come from. It is very easy to say that Santa Claus brought them. All
well regulated people know that, of course; about the reindeer, and the sledge, and the pack crammed with
toys, the chimney, and all the rest of it—that is all true, of course, and everybody knows about it; but that is
not the question which puzzles. What children want to know is, where do these Christmas presents come from
in the first place? Where does Santa Claus get them? Well, the answer to that is, In the garden of the
Christmas Monks. This has not been known until very lately; that is, it has not been known till very lately
except in the immediate vicinity of the Christmas Monks. There, of course, it has been known for ages. It is
rather an out-of-the-way place; and that accounts for our never hearing of it before.
The Convent of the Christmas Monks is a most charmingly picturesque pile of old buildings; there are towers
and turrets, and peaked roofs and arches, and everything which could possibly be thought of in the
architectural line, to make a convent picturesque. It is built of graystone; but it is only once in a while that you
can see the graystone, for the walls are almost completely covered with mistletoe and ivy and evergreen.
There are the most delicious little arched windows with diamond panes peeping out from the mistletoe and
evergreen, and always at all times of the year, a little Christmas wreath of ivy and holly-berries is suspended
in the centre of every window. Over all the doors, which are likewise arched, are Christmas garlands, and over
the main entrance Merry Christmas in evergreen letters.
The Christmas Monks are a jolly brethren; the robes of their order are white, gilded with green garlands, and
they never are seen out at any time of the year without Christmas wreaths on their heads. Every morning they
file in a long procession into the chapel to sing a Christmas carol; and every evening they ring a Christmas
But the principal thing about the Convent of the Christmas Monks is the garden; for that is where the
Christmas presents grow. This garden extends over a large number of acres, and is divided into different
departments, just as we divide our flower and vegetable gardens; one bed for onions, one for cabbages, and
one for phlox, and one for verbenas, etc.
Every spring the Christmas Monks go out to sow the Christmas-present seeds after they have ploughed the
ground and made it all ready.
There is one enormous bed devoted to rocking-horses. The rocking-horse seed is curious enough; just little
bits of rocking-horses so small that they can only be seen through a very, very powerful microscope. The
Monks drop these at quite a distance from each other, so that they will not interfere while growing; then they
cover them up neatly with earth, and put up a sign-post with "Rocking-horses" on it in evergreen letters. Just
so with the penny-trumpet seed, and the toy-furniture seed, the skate-seed, the sled-seed, and all the others.
Perhaps the prettiest, and most interesting part of the garden, is that devoted to wax dolls. There are other beds
for the commoner dolls—for the rag dolls, and the china dolls, and the rubber dolls, but of course wax dolls
would look much handsomer growing. Wax dolls have to be planted quite early in the season; for they need a
good start before the sun is very high. The seeds are the loveliest bits of microscopic dolls imaginable. The
Monks sow them pretty close together, and they begin to come up by the middle of May. There is first just a
little glimmer of gold, or flaxen, or black, or brown, as the case may be, above the soil. Then the snowy
foreheads appear, and the blue eyes, and the black eyes, and, later on, all those enchanting little heads are out
of the ground, and are nodding and winking and smiling to each other the whole extent of the field; with their
pinky cheeks and sparkling eyes and curly hair there is nothing so pretty as these little wax doll heads peeping
out of the earth. Gradually, more and more of them come to light, and finally by Christmas they are all ready
to gather. There they stand, swaying to and fro, and dancing lightly on their slender feet which are connected
with the ground, each by a tiny green stem; their dresses of pink, or blue, or white—for their dresses grow
with them—flutter in the air. Just about the prettiest sight in the world is the bed of wax dolls in the garden of
the Christmas Monks at Christmas time. Of course ever since this convent and garden were established (and
that was so long ago that the wisest man can find no books about it) their glories have attracted a vast deal of
admiration and curiosity from the young people in the surrounding country; but as the garden is enclosed on
all sides by an immensely thick and high hedge, which no boy could climb, or peep over, they could only
judge of the garden by the fruits which were parceled out to them on Christmas-day.
You can judge, then, of the sensation among the young folks, and older ones, for that matter, when one
evening there appeared hung upon a conspicuous place in the garden-hedge, a broad strip of white cloth
trimmed with evergreen and printed with the following notice in evergreen letters:
"Wanted—By the Christmas Monks, two good boys to assist in garden work. Applicants will be examined by
Fathers Anselmus and Ambrose, in the convent refectory, on April 10th."
This notice was hung out about five o'clock in the evening, some time in the early part of February. By noon
the street was so full of boys staring at it with their mouths wide open, so as to see better, that the king was
obliged to send his bodyguard before him to clear the way with brooms, when he wanted to pass on his way
from his chamber of state to his palace.
But the great difficulty, of course, was about the degree of goodness requisite to pass the examination. The
boys in this country were no worse than the boys in other countries, but there were not many of them that
would not have done a little differently if he had only known beforehand of the advertisement of the
Christmas Monks. However, they made the most of the time remaining, and were so good all over the
kingdom that a very millennium seemed dawning. The school teachers used their ferrules for fire wood, and
the king ordered all the birch trees cut down and exported, as he thought there would be no more call for them
in his own realm.
When the time for the examination drew near, there were two boys whom every one thought would obtain the
situation, although some of the other boys had lingering hopes for themselves; if only the Monks would
examine them on the last six weeks, they thought they might pass. Still all the older people had decided in
their minds that the Monks would choose these two boys. One was the Prince, the king's oldest son; and the
other was a poor boy named Peter. The Prince was no better than the other boys; indeed, to tell the truth, he
was not so good; in fact, was the biggest rogue in the whole country; but all the lords and the ladies, and all
the people who admired the lords and ladies, said it was their solemn belief that the Prince was the best boy in
the whole kingdom; and they were prepared to give in their testimony, one and all, to that effect to the
Christmas Monks.
When the examination day came all the boys from far and near, with their hair neatly brushed and parted, and
dressed in their best clothes, flocked into the convent. Many of their relatives and friends went with them to
witness the examination.
The refectory of the convent, where they assembled, was a very large hall with a delicious smell of roast
turkey and plum pudding in it. All the little boys sniffed, and their mouths watered.
The two fathers who were to examine the boys were perched up in a high pulpit so profusely trimmed with
evergreen that it looked like a bird's nest; they were remarkably pleasant-looking men, and their eyes twinkled
merrily under their Christmas wreaths. Father Anselmus was a little the taller of the two, and Father Ambrose
was a little the broader; and that was about all the difference between them in looks.
The little boys all stood up in a row, their friends stationed themselves in good places, and the examination
began.
Then if one had been placed beside the entrance to the convent, he would have seen one after another, a
crestfallen little boy with his arm lifted up and crooked, and his face hidden in it, come out and walk forlornly
away. He had failed to pass.
The two fathers found out that this boy had robbed birds' nests, and this one stolen apples. And one after
another they walked disconsolately away till there were only two boys left: the Prince and Peter.
"Now, your Highness," said Father Anselmus, who always took the lead in the questions, "are you a good
boy?"
"O holy Father!" exclaimed all the people—there were a good many fine folks from the court present. "He is
such a good boy! such a wonderful boy! We never knew him to do a wrong thing in his sweet life."
"I don't suppose he ever robbed a bird's nest?" said Father Ambrose a little doubtfully.
At last everybody being so confident that here could be no reasonable fault found with the Prince, he was
pronounced competent to enter upon the Monks' service. Peter they knew a great deal about before—indeed, a
glance at his face was enough to satisfy any one of his goodness; for he did look more like one of the boy
angels in the altar-piece than anything else. So after a few questions, they accepted him also; and the people
went home and left the two boys with the Christmas Monks.
The next morning Peter was obliged to lay aside his homespun coat, and the Prince his velvet tunic, and both
were dressed in some little white robes with evergreen girdles like the Monks. Then the Prince was set to
sowing Noah's ark seed, and Peter picture-book seed. Up and down they went scattering the seed. Peter sang a
little psalm to himself, but the Prince grumbled because they had not given him gold-watch or gem seed to
plant instead of the toy which he had outgrown long ago. By noon Peter had planted all his picture-books, and
fastened up the card to mark them on the pole; but the Prince had dawdled so his work was not half done.
"We are going to have a trial with this boy," said the Monks to each other; "we shall have to set him a penance
at once, or we cannot manage him at all."
So the Prince had to go without his dinner, and kneel on dried peas in the chapel all the afternoon. The next
day he finished his Noah's Arks meekly; but the next day he rebelled again and had to go the whole length of
the field where they planted jewsharps, on his knees. And so it was about every other day for the whole year.
One of the brothers had to be set apart in a meditating cell to invent new penances; for they had used up all on
their list before the Prince had been with them three months.
The Prince became dreadfully tired of his convent life, and if he could have brought it about would have run
away. Peter, on the contrary, had never been so happy in his life. He worked like a bee, and the pleasure he
took in seeing the lovely things he had planted come up, was unbounded, and the Christmas carols and chimes
delighted his soul. Then, too, he had never fared so well in his life. He could never remember the time before
when he had been a whole week without being hungry. He sent his wages every month to his parents; and he
never ceased to wonder at the discontent of the Prince.
"They grow so slow," the Prince would say, wrinkling up his handsome forehead. "I expected to have a
bushelful of new toys every month; and not one have I had yet. And these stingy old Monks say I can only
have my usual Christmas share anyway, nor can I pick them out myself. I never saw such a stupid place to
stay in my life. I want to have my velvet tunic on and go home to the palace and ride on my white pony with
the silver tail, and hear them all tell me how charming I am." Then the Prince would crook his arm and put his
head on it and cry.
Peter pitied him, and tried to comfort him, but it was not of much use, for the Prince got angry because he was
not discontented as well as himself.
Two weeks before Christmas everything in the garden was nearly ready to be picked. Some few things needed
a little more December sun, but everything looked perfect. Some of the Jack-in-the-boxes would not pop out
quite quick enough, and some of the jumping-Jacks were hardly as limber as they might be as yet; that was all.
As it was so near Christmas the Monks were engaged in their holy exercises in the chapel for the greater part
of the time, and only went over the garden once a day to see if everything was all right.
The Prince and Peter were obliged to be there all the time. There was plenty of work for them to do; for once
in a while something would blow over, and then there were the penny-trumpets to keep in tune; and that was a
vast sight of work.
One morning the Prince was at one end of the garden straightening up some wooden soldiers which had
toppled over, and Peter was in the wax doll bed dusting the dolls. All of a sudden he heard a sweet little voice:
"O, Peter!" He thought at first one of the dolls was talking, but they could not say anything but papa and
mamma; and had the merest apologies for voices anyway. "Here I am, Peter!" and there was a little pull at his
sleeve. There was his little sister. She was not any taller than the dolls around her, and looked uncommonly
like the prettiest, pinkest-cheeked, yellowest-haired ones; so it was no wonder that Peter did not see her at
first. She stood there poising herself on her crutches, poor little thing, and smiling lovingly up at Peter.
"Oh, you darling!" cried Peter, catching her up in his arms. "How did you get in here?"
"I stole in behind one of the Monks," said she. "I saw him going up the street past our house, and I ran out and
kept behind him all the way. When he opened the gate I whisked in too, and then I followed him into the
garden. I've been here with the dollies ever since."
"Well," said poor Peter, "I don't see what I am going to do with you, now you are here. I can't let you out
again; and I don't know what the Monks will say."
"Oh, I know!" cried the little girl gayly. "I'll stay out here in the garden. I can sleep in one of those beautiful
dolls' cradles over there; and you can bring me something to eat."
"But the Monks come out every morning to look over the garden, and they'll be sure to find you," said her
brother, anxiously.
"No, I'll hide! O Peter, here is a place where there isn't any doll!"
"Well, I'll tell you what I'll do! I'll just stand here in this place where the doll didn't come up, and nobody can
tell the difference."
"Well, I don't know but you can do that," said Peter, although he was still ill at ease. He was so good a boy he
was very much afraid of doing wrong, and offending his kind friends the Monks; at the same time he could
not help being glad to see his dear little sister.
He smuggled some food out to her, and she played merrily about him all day; and at night he tucked her into
one of the dolls' cradles with lace pillows and quilt of rose-colored silk.
The next morning when the Monks were going the rounds, the father who inspected the wax doll bed was a bit
nearsighted, and he never noticed the difference between the dolls and Peter's little sister, who swung herself
on her crutches, and looked just as much like a wax doll as she possibly could. So the two were delighted with
the success of their plan.
They went on thus for a few days, and Peter could not help being happy with his darling little sister, although
at the same time he could not help worrying for fear he was doing wrong.
Something else happened now, which made him worry still more; the Prince ran away. He had been watching
for a long time for an opportunity to possess himself of a certain long ladder made of twisted evergreen ropes,
which the Monks kept locked up in the toolhouse. Lately, by some oversight, the toolhouse had been left
unlocked one day, and the Prince got the ladder. It was the latter part of the afternoon, and the Christmas
Monks were all in the chapel practicing Christmas carols. The Prince found a very large hamper, and picked
as many Christmas presents for himself as he could stuff into it; then he put the ladder against the high gate in
front of the convent, and climbed up, dragging the hamper after him. When he reached the top of the gate,
which was quite broad, he sat down to rest for a moment before pulling the ladder up so as to drop it on the
other side.
He gave his feet a little triumphant kick as he looked back at his prison, and down slid the evergreen ladder!
The Prince lost his balance, and would inevitably have broken his neck if he had not clung desperately to the
hamper which hung over on the convent side of the fence; and as it was just the same weight as the Prince, it
kept him suspended on the other.
He screamed with all the force of his royal lungs; was heard by a party of noblemen who were galloping up
the street; was rescued, and carried in state to the palace. But he was obliged to drop the hamper of presents,
for with it all the ingenuity of the noblemen could not rescue him as speedily as it was necessary they should.
When the good Monks discovered the escape of the Prince they were greatly grieved, for they had tried their
best to do well by him; and poor Peter could with difficulty be comforted. He had been very fond of the
Prince, although the latter had done little except torment him for the whole year; but Peter had a way of being
fond of folks.
A few days after the Prince ran away, and the day before the one on which the Christmas presents were to be
gathered, the nearsighted father went out into the wax doll field again; but this time he had his spectacles on,
and could see just as well as any one, and even a little better. Peter's little sister was swinging herself on her
crutches, in the place where the wax doll did not come up, tipping her little face up, and smiling just like the
dolls around her.
"Why, what is this!" said the father. "Hoc credam! I thought that wax doll did not come up. Can my eyes
deceive me? non verum est! There is a doll there—and what a doll! on crutches, and in poor, homely gear!"
Then the nearsighted father put out his hand toward Peter's little sister. She jumped—she could not help it,
and the holy father jumped too; the Christmas wreath actually tumbled off his head.
"It is a miracle!" exclaimed he when he could speak; "the little girl is alive! parra puella viva est. I will pick
her and take her to the brethren, and we will pay her the honors she is entitled to."
Then the good father put on his Christmas wreath, for he dare not venture before his abbot without it, picked
up Peter's little sister, who was trembling in all her little bones, and carried her into the chapel, where the
Monks were just assembling to sing another carol. He went right up to the Christmas abbot, who was seated in
a splendid chair, and looked like a king.
"Most holy abbot," said the nearsighted father, holding out Peter's little sister, "behold a miracle, vide
miraculum! Thou wilt remember that there was one wax doll planted which did not come up. Behold, in her
place I have found this doll on crutches, which is—alive!"
"Let me see her!" said the abbot; and all the other Monks crowded around, opening their mouths just like the
little boys around the notice, in order to see better.
"Rather a lame miracle," said the brother who had charge of the funny picture-books and the toy monkeys;
they rather threw his mind off its level of sobriety, and he was apt to make frivolous speeches unbecoming a
monk.
The abbot gave him a reproving glance, and the brother, who was the leach of the convent, came forward.
"Let me look at the miracle, most holy abbot," said he. He took up Peter's sister, and looked carefully at the
small, twisted ankle. "I think I can cure this with my herbs and simples," said he.
"But I don't know," said the abbot doubtfully. "I never heard of curing a miracle."
"If it is not lawful, my humble power will not suffice to cure it," said the father who was the leach.
"True," said the abbot; "take her, then, and exercise thy healing art upon her, and we will go on with our
Christmas devotions, for which we should now feel all the more zeal."
So the father took away Peter's little sister, who was still too frightened to speak.
The Christmas Monk was a wonderful doctor, for by Christmas eve the little girl was completely cured of her
lameness. This may seem incredible, but it was owing in great part to the herbs and simples, which are of a
species that our doctors have no knowledge of; and also to a wonderful lotion which has never been advertised
on our fences.
Peter of course heard the talk about the miracle, and knew at once what it meant. He was almost heartbroken
to think he was deceiving the Monks so, but at the same time he did not dare to confess the truth for fear they
would put a penance upon his sister, and he could not bear to think of her having to kneel upon dried peas.
He worked hard picking Christmas presents, and hid his unhappiness as best he could. On Christmas eve he
was called into the chapel. The Christmas Monks were all assembled there. The walls were covered with
green garlands and boughs and sprays of holly berries, and branches of wax lights Were gleaming brightly
amongst them. The altar and the picture of the Blessed Child behind it were so bright as to almost dazzle one;
and right up in the midst of it, in a lovely white dress, all wreaths and jewels, in a little chair with a canopy
woven of green branches over it, sat Peter's little sister.
And there were all the Christmas Monks in their white robes and wreaths, going up in a long procession, with
their hands full of the very showiest Christmas presents to offer them to her!
But when they reached her and held out the lovely presents—the first was an enchanting wax doll, the biggest
beauty in the whole garden—instead of reaching out her hands for them, she just drew back, and said in her
little sweet, piping voice: "Please, I ain't a millacle, I'm only Peter's little sister."
"Peter?" said the abbot; "the Peter who works in our garden?"
Now here was a fine opportunity for a whole convent full of monks to look foolish—filing up in procession
with their hands full of gifts to offer to a miracle, and finding there was no miracle, but only Peter's little
sister.
But the abbot of the Christmas Monks had always maintained that there were two ways of looking at all
things; if any object was not what you wanted it to be in one light, that there was another light in which it
would be sure to meet your views.
"This little girl did not come up in the place of the wax doll, and she is not a miracle in that light," said he;
"but look at her in another light and she is a miracle—do you not see?"
They all looked at her, the darling little girl, the very meaning and sweetness of all Christmas in her loving,
trusting, innocent face.
"Yes," said all the Christmas Monks, "she is a miracle." And they all laid their beautiful Christmas presents
down before her.
Peter was so delighted he hardly knew himself; and, oh! the joy there was when he led his little sister home on
Christmas-day, and showed all the wonderful presents.
The Christmas Monks always retained Peter in their employ—in fact he is in their employ to this day. And his
parents, and his little sister who was entirely cured of her lameness, have never wanted for anything.
As for the Prince, the courtiers were never tired of discussing and admiring his wonderful knowledge of
physics which led to his adjusting the weight of the hamper of Christmas presents to his own so nicely that he
could not fall. The Prince liked the talk and the admiration well enough, but he could not help, also, being a
little glum; for he got no Christmas presents that year.
MARY E. WILKINS.
"Heigh-ho, heigh-ho!"
"Bravo, bravo!"
Ah no, ah no!
Daintiest blue,
Hanging long,
I started up in bed,
Like everything!
And the red, and the blue, and the brown, and the gray,
And the pink one, and mine, had it all their own way,
MARGARET SIDNEY.
t was a thoroughly disagreeable March morning. The wind blew in sharp gusts from every quarter
of the compass by turns. It seemed to take especial delight in rushing suddenly around corners and taking
away the breath of anybody it could catch there coming from the opposite direction. The dust, too, filled
people's eyes and noses and mouths, while the damp raw March air easily found its way through the best
clothing, and turned boys' skins into pimply goose-flesh.
It was about as disagreeable a morning for going out as can be imagined; and yet everybody in the little
Western river town who could get out went out and stayed out.
Men and women, boys and girls, and even little children, ran to the river-bank: and, once there, they stayed,
with no thought, it seemed, of going back to their homes or their work.
The people of the town were wild with excitement, and everybody told everybody else what had happened,
although everybody knew all about it already. Everybody, I mean, except Joe Lambert, and he had been so
busy ever since daylight, sawing wood in Squire Grisard's woodshed, that he had neither seen nor heard
anything at all. Joe was the poorest person in the town. He was the only boy there who really had no home and
nobody to care for him. Three or four years before this March morning, Joe had been left an orphan, and being
utterly destitute, he should have been sent to the poorhouse, or "bound out" to some person as a sort of
servant. But Joe Lambert had refused to go to the poorhouse or to become a bound boy. He had declared his
ability to take care of himself, and by working hard at odd jobs, sawing wood, rolling barrels on the wharf,
picking apples or weeding onions as opportunity offered, he had managed to support himself "after a manner,"
as the village people said. That is to say, he generally got enough to eat, and some clothes to wear. He slept in
a warehouse shed, the owner having given him leave to do so on condition that he would act as a sort of
watchman on the premises.
Joe Lambert alone of all the villagers knew nothing of what had happened; and of course Joe Lambert did not
count for anything in the estimation of people who had houses to live in. The only reason I have gone out of
the way to make an exception of so unimportant a person is, that I think Joe did count for something on that
particular March day at least.
When he finished the pile of wood that he had to saw, and went to the house to get his money, he found
nobody there. Going down the street he found the town empty, and, looking down a cross street, he saw the
crowds that had gathered on the river-bank, thus learning at last that something unusual had occurred. Of
course he ran to the river to learn what it was.
When he got there he learned that Noah Martin the fisherman who was also the ferryman between the village
and its neighbor on the other side of the river, had been drowned during the early morning in a foolish attempt
to row his ferry skiff across the stream. The ice which had blocked the river for two months, had begun to
move on the day before, and Martin with his wife and baby—a child about a year old—were on the other side
of the river at the time. Early on that morning there had been a temporary gorging of the ice about a mile
above the town, and, taking advantage of the comparatively free channel, Martin had tried to cross with his
wife and child, in his boat.
The gorge had broken up almost immediately, as the river was rising rapidly, and Martin's boat had been
caught and crushed in the ice. Martin had been drowned, but his wife, with her child in her arms, had clung to
the wreck of the skiff, and had been carried by the current to a little low-lying island just in front of the town.
What had happened was of less importance, however, than what people saw must happen. The poor woman
and baby out there on the island, drenched as they had been in the icy water, must soon die with cold, and,
moreover, the island was now nearly under water, while the great stream was rising rapidly. It was evident
that within an hour or two the water would sweep over the whole surface of the island, and the great fields of
ice would of course carry the woman and child to a terrible death.
Many wild suggestions were made for their rescue, but none that gave the least hope of success. It was simply
impossible to launch a boat. The vast fields of ice, two or three feet in thickness, and from twenty feet to a
hundred yards in breadth, were crushing and grinding down the river at the rate of four or five miles an hour,
turning and twisting about, sometimes jamming their edges together with so great a force that one would lap
over another, and sometimes drifting apart and leaving wide open spaces between for a moment or two. One
might as well go upon such a river in an egg shell as in the stoutest row-boat ever built.
The poor woman with her babe could be seen from the shore, standing there alone on the rapidly narrowing
strip of island. Her voice could not reach the people on the bank, but when she held her poor little baby
toward them in mute appeal for help, the mothers there understood her agony.
There was nothing to be done, however. Human sympathy was given freely, but human help was out of the
question. Everybody on the river-shore was agreed in that opinion. Everybody, that is to say, except Joe
Lambert. He had been so long in the habit of finding ways to help himself under difficulties, that he did not
easily make up his mind to think any case hopeless.
No sooner did Joe clearly understand how matters stood than he ran away from the crowd, nobody paying any
attention to what he did. Half an hour later somebody cried out: "Look there! Who's that, and what's he going
to do?" pointing up the stream.
Looking in that direction, the people saw some one three quarters of a mile away standing on a floating field
of ice in the river. He had a large farm-basket strapped upon his shoulders, while in his hands he held a plank.
As the ice-field upon which he stood neared another, the youth ran forward, threw his plank down, making a
bridge of it, and crossed to the farther field. Then picking up his plank, he waited for a chance to repeat the
process.
As he thus drifted down the river, every eye was strained in his direction. Presently some one cried out: "It's
Joe Lambert; and he's trying to cross to the island!"
There was a shout as the people understood the nature of Joe's heroic attempt, and then a hush as its extreme
danger became apparent.
Joe had laid his plans wisely and well, but it seemed impossible that he could succeed. His purpose was, with
the aid of the plank to cross from one ice-field to another until he should reach the island; but as that would
require a good deal of time, and the ice was moving down stream pretty rapidly, it was necessary to start at a
point above the town. Joe had gone about a mile up the river before going on the ice, and when first seen from
the town he had already reached the channel.
After that first shout a whisper might have been heard in the crowd on the bank. The heroism of the poor boy's
attempt awed the spectators, and the momentary expectation that he would disappear forever amid the
crushing ice-fields, made them hold their breath in anxiety and terror.
His greatest danger was from the smaller cakes of ice. When it became necessary for him to step upon one of
these, his weight was sufficient to make it tilt, and his footing was very insecure. After awhile as he was
nearing the island, he came into a large collection of these smaller ice-cakes. For awhile he waited, hoping
that a larger field would drift near him; but after a minute's delay he saw that he was rapidly floating past the
island, and that he must either trust himself to the treacherous broken ice, or fail in his attempt to save the
woman and child.
"Poor fellow!" exclaimed some tender-hearted spectator; "it is all over with him now."
"No; look, look!" shouted another. "He's trying to climb upon the ice. Hurrah! he's on his feet again!" With
that the whole company of spectators shouted for joy.
Joe had managed to regain his plank as well as to climb upon a cake of ice before the fields around could
crush him, and now moving cautiously, he made his way, little by little toward the island.
"Hurrah! Hurrah! he's there at last!" shouted the people on the shore.
"But will he get back again?" was the question each one asked himself a moment later.
Having reached the island, Joe very well knew that the more difficult part of his task was still before him, for
it was one thing for an active boy to work his way over floating ice, and quite another to carry a child and lead
a woman upon a similar journey.
But Joe Lambert was quick-witted and "long-headed," as well as brave, and he meant to do all that he could to
save these poor creatures for whom he had risked his life so heroically. Taking out his knife he made the
woman cut her skirts off at the knees, so that she might walk and leap more freely. Then placing the baby in
the basket which was strapped upon his back, he cautioned the woman against giving way to fright, and
instructed her carefully about the method of crossing.
On the return journey Joe was able to avoid one great risk. As it was not necessary to land at any particular
point, time was of little consequence, and hence when no large field of ice was at hand, he could wait for one
to approach, without attempting to make use of the smaller ones. Leading the woman wherever that was
necessary, he slowly made his way toward shore, drifting down the river, of course, while all the people of the
town marched along the bank.
When at last Joe leaped ashore in company with the woman, and bearing her babe in the basket on his back,
the people seemed ready to trample upon each other in their eagerness to shake hands with their hero.
Their hero was barely able to stand, however. Drenched as he had been in the icy river, the sharp March wind
had chilled him to the marrow, and one of the village doctors speedily lifted him into his carriage which he
had brought for that purpose, and drove rapidly away, while the other physician took charge of Mrs. Martin
and the baby.
Joe was a strong, healthy fellow, and under the doctor's treatment of hot brandy and vigorous rubbing with
coarse towels, he soon warmed. Then he wanted to saw enough wood for the doctor to pay for his treatment,
and thereupon the doctor threatened to poison him if he should ever venture to mention pay to him again.
Naturally enough the village people talked of nothing but Joe Lambert's heroic deed, and the feeling was
general that they had never done their duty toward the poor orphan boy. There was an eager wish to help him
now, and many offers were made to him; but these all took the form of charity, and Joe would not accept
charity at all. Four years earlier, as I have already said, he had refused to go to the poorhouse or to be "bound
out," declaring that he could take care of himself; and when some thoughtless person had said in his hearing
that he would have to live on charity, Joe's reply had been:
"I'll never eat a mouthful in this town that I haven't worked for if I starve." And he had kept his word. Now
that he was fifteen years old he was not willing to begin receiving charity even in the form of a reward for his
good deed.
One day when some of the most prominent men of the village were talking to him on the subject Joe said:
"I don't want anything except a chance to work, but I'll tell you what you may do for me if you will. Now that
poor Martin is dead the ferry privilege will be to lease again, I'd like to get it for a good long term. Maybe I
can make something out of it by being always ready to row people across, and I may even be able to put on
something better than a skiff after awhile. I'll pay the village what Martin paid."
The gentlemen were glad enough of a chance to do Joe even this small favor, and there was no difficulty in
the way. The authorities gladly granted Joe a lease of the ferry privilege for twenty years, at twenty dollars a
year rent, which was the rate Martin had paid.
At first Joe rowed people back and forth, saving what money he got very carefully. This was all that could be
required of him, but it occurred to Joe that if he had a ferry boat big enough, a good many horses and cattle
and a good deal of freight would be sent across the river, for he was a "long-headed" fellow as I have said.
One day a chance offered, and he bought for twenty-five dollars a large old wood boat, which was simply a
square barge forty feet long and fifteen feet wide, with bevelled bow and stern, made to hold cord wood for
the steamboats. With his own hands he laid a stout deck on this, and, with the assistance of a man whom he
hired for that purpose, he constructed a pair of paddle wheels. By that time Joe was out of money, and work
on the boat was suspended for awhile. When he had accumulated a little more money, he bought a horse
power, and placed it in the middle of his boat, connecting it with the shaft of his wheels. Then he made a
rudder and helm, and his horse-boat was ready for use. It had cost him about a hundred dollars besides his
own labor upon it, but it would carry live stock and freight as well as passengers, and so the business of the
ferry rapidly increased, and Joe began to put a little money away in the bank.
After awhile a railroad was built into the village, and then a second one came. A year later another railroad
was opened on the other side of the river, and all the passengers who came to one village by rail had to be
ferried across the river in order to continue their journey by the railroads there. The horse-boat was too small
and too slow for the business, and Joe Lambert had to buy two steam ferry-boats to take its place. These cost
more money than he had, but, as the owner of the ferry privilege, his credit was good, and the boats soon paid
for themselves, while Joe's bank account grew again.
Finally the railroad people determined to run through cars for passengers and freight, and to carry them across
the river on large boats built for that purpose; but before they gave their orders to their boat builders, they
were waited upon by the attorneys of Joe Lambert, who soon convinced them that his ferry privilege gave him
alone the right to run any kind of ferry-boats between the two villages which had now grown to such size that
they called themselves cities. The result was that the railroads made a contract with Joe to carry their cars
across, and he had some large boats built for that purpose.
All this occurred a good many years ago, and Joe Lambert is not called Joe now, but Captain Lambert. He is
one of the most prosperous men in the little river city, and owns many large river steamers besides his
ferry-boats. Nobody is readier than he to help a poor boy or a poor man; but he has his own way of doing it.
He will never toss so much as a cent to a beggar, but he never refuses to give man or boy a chance to earn
money by work. He has an odd theory that money which comes without work does more harm than good.
CELIA THAXTER.
A NOD OF GREETING.
ne of the most pleasing of modern English authors, Philip Gilbert Hamerton, who is an artist as
well as writer, and who loves animals almost as he does art, says that it would be interesting for a man to live
permanently in a large hall into which three or four horses, of a race already intelligent, should be allowed to
go and come freely from the time they were born, just as dogs do in a family where they are pets, or
something to that effect. They should have full liberty to poke their noses in their master's face, or lay their
heads on his shoulder at meal-time, receiving their treat of lettuce or sugar or bread, only they must
understand that they would be punished if they knocked off the vases or upset furniture, or did other mischief.
He would like to see this tried, and see what would come of it; what intelligence a horse would develop, and
what love.
The plan looks quixotic, does it not? But one thing you may be sure of; he might have worse associates. There
are grades of intellect—we will call it intellect, for it comes very near, so near that we never can know just
where the fine shading off begins between a horse's brain and that of a man; and there are warm, loving
equine hearts. Many horses are superior to many men; nobler, more honorable, quicker-witted, more loyal,
and a thousand times more companionable. Would you not rather, if you had to live on Robinson Crusoe's
island, have an intelligent, sympathetic horse and a devoted bright dog than some people you know? One is
inclined to favor Hamerton's notion after seeing the Bartholomew Educated Horses, who can do almost
anything but speak.
There were sixteen of the animals, counting a donkey; grays, bays, chestnut-colored beauties, and one who
looked buff in the gaslight. In recalling them, I cannot say that there was a white-footed one. What
consequence about white feet, you ask! Perhaps you know that they make that of some account in the horse
bazaars of the East. The Turks say "two white fore feet are lucky; one white fore and hind foot are unlucky;"
and they have a rhyme that runs—
It is perhaps needless and an insult to their intelligence for me to say that they all know their own names as
well as you know yours. They know, too, their numbers when they are acting as soldiers formed in line
waiting orders; the Professor passes along and checking them off with his forefinger numbers them, then
falling back, calls out for certain ones to form into platoons, and they make no mistake. Their ears are alert,
their senses sharp, their memory good. "Number Two," "Number Four," and so on, answer by advancing, as a
soldier would respond to the roll-call.
They came around from the stable an hour before the performance and went up the stairs by which the
audience went; and a crowd used to gather every afternoon and evening to see that remarkable and free feat.
PRINCE.
When the curtain rose there was to be seen a small stage carpeted ankle deep with saw-dust, where Professor
Bartholomew purposed to have his horses act; first the part of a school, then of a court room, last a military
drill and taking of a fort. They came in one after another, pretending, if that is not too strong a word, that they
were on the way to school, and that was the playground; and there they played together, with such soft,
graceful action, such caressing ways, and trippings as dainty as in "Pinafore," until at the ringing of a bell they
came at once to order from their mixed-up, mazy pastime, and waited the arrival of their teacher, the
Professor, who entered with a schoolmaster air, and gave the order.
"Bucephalus, take my hat, and bring me a chair!" as you might tell James or John to do the same, and with
more promptness than they would have shown, Bucephalus came forward, took the hat between his teeth,
carried it across the stage and placed it on a desk, and brought a chair.
SPRITE AS A MATHEMATICIAN.
The master, seating himself, began the business of the day, saying, "The school will now form two classes; the
large scholars will go to the left, the small ones to the right;" and six magnificent creatures separated
themselves from the group huddled together and went as they were bid, while Nellie, the mustang, and other
little ones, filed off to the opposite side, and placed themselves in a row, with their heads turned away from
the stage. And there they remained, generally minding their business, though sometimes one would get out of
position, look around, or give his neighbor a nudge which brought out a reprimand: "Pope, what are you
doing?" "Brutus, you need not look around to see what I am about!" "Sprite, you let Mustang alone!"
He then called for some one to come forward and be monitor, and Prince volunteered, was sent to the desk for
some papers, tried to raise the lid, and let it drop, pretending that he couldn't, but after being sharply asked
what he was so careless for, did it, and then brought a handkerchief and made a great ado about wanting to
have something done with it, which proved to be tying it around his leg. Meanwhile one of the horses behaved
badly, whereupon the teacher said, "I see you are booked for a whipping," and the culprit came out in the
floor, straightened himself, and received without wincing what seemed to be a severe whipping; but in reality
it was all done with a soft cotton snapper, which made more sound than anything else.
ABDALLAH PACES.
Mustang was called upon to ring the bell, a good-sized dinner-bell, for the blackboard exercises by Sprite. He,
too, made believe he couldn't, seized it the wrong way, dropped it, picked it up wrong end first, was scolded
at, then took it by the handle, gave it a vigorous shake, and after letting it fall several times, set it on the table.
Meanwhile a platform was brought in supporting a tall post, at the top of which, higher than a horse could
reach, was a blackboard having chalked on it a sum which was not added up correctly. Sprite, being requested
to wipe it out, took the sponge from the table, and planting her fore-feet on the platform, stretched her head
up, and by desperate passes succeeded in wiping out a part of the figures, and started to leave, but seeing that
some remained, went back and erased them.
One day she went through a process which showed conclusively that horses can reason. She dropped the
sponge the first thing, and it fell down behind the platform out of her sight. She got down, and looked about in
the saw-dust for it, the audience curiously watching to see what she would do next. She was evidently much
perplexed. She knew perfectly well that her duty would not be fulfilled until she had rubbed the figures out,
and the sponge was not to be found. Mr. Bartholomew said nothing, gave her no look or hint or sign to help
her out of her predicament, but sat in his chair and waited. At last she deliberately stepped on the platform
again, stretched her head up and wiped the figures out with her mouth, at which the audience applauded as if
they would bring the roof down. That was something clearly not in the programme, but a bit of independent
reasoning. Yet, having done so much, she knew that something was not right. About that sponge—what
had become of it? It was her business to lay it on the table when she was through using it. She hesitated,
looked this way and that, started to go, came back, dreadfully puzzled and uncertain, suddenly spied it, set her
teeth in it, put it on the table, and went to her place, with a clear conscience, no doubt, and the people cheered
more wildly than before.
A GAME OF LEAP-FROG.
This was to me one of the most interesting things I witnessed; and connecting it with some facts Mr.
Bartholomew communicated, it was doubly so.
the opportunity, and at times this little by-play became very amusing.
After this was most exquisite dancing by Bucephalus, and by Cæsar, whose steppings were in perfect rhythm
to the music. Then the latter turned in a circle to the right or the left and walked around defining the figure
eight, just as any one in the audience chose to request; and Abdallah came in with a string of bells around her,
and paced, cantered, galloped, trotted, marched or walked as the word was given. The horses were generally
expected to come to the footlights and bow to the audience at the close of any feat; occasionally one would
forget to do this, and then some of his comrades would shoulder or buffet him, or Mr. Bartholomew would
give a reminder, "That is not all, is it?" and back would come the delinquent, and bow and bow twenty times
as fast as he could, as if there could not be enough of it. At the close of one scene all the horses came up to the
front in a line, and leaning over the rope which was stretched there to keep them from coming down on the
people's heads, would bow, and bow again, and it was a wonderfully pretty sight to see.
A game of leap frog was announced. "There are four of the horses that jump," said Mr. Bartholomew. They
like this least of any of their feats, and those who can do it best are most timid. At first one horse is jumped
over, then two, three, are packed closely together, and little Sprite clears them all at one flying leap,
broad-backed and much taller than herself though they are. Those who do not want to try it beg off by a pretty
pantomime, and Sprite is encouraged by her master, who pats her first and seems to be saying something in
her ear. They like to get approval in the way of a caress, but beyond that they are in no way rewarded.
One of the grand tableaux represents a court scene with the donkey set up in a high place for judge, the jury
passing around from mouth to mouth a placard labelled "Not Guilty," and the releasing of the prisoner from
his chain. But the military drill exceeds all else by the brilliance of the display and the inspiring movements
and martial air. Mr. Bartholomew in military uniform advancing like a general, disciplined twelve horses who
came in at bugle call, with a crimson band about their bodies and other decorations, and went through
evolutions, marchings, counter-marchings, in single file, by twos, in platoons, forming a hollow square with
the precision of old soldiers. They liked it too, and were proud of themselves as they stepped to the music.
The final act was a furious charge on a fort, the horses firing cannon, till in smoke and flame, to the sound of
patriotic strains, the structure was demolished, the country's flag was saved, caught up by one horse, seized by
another, waved, passed around, and amidst the excitement and confusion of a great victory, triumphant horses
rushing about, the curtain fell.
Trained horses, that is, trained for circus feats at given signals, are no novelty. Away back in the reign of one
of the Stuarts, a horse named Morocco was exhibited in England, though his tricks were only as the alphabet
to what is done now. And long before Rarey's day, there was here and there a man who had a sort of magnetic
influence, and could tame a vicious horse whom nobody else dared go near. When George the Fourth was
Prince of Wales, he had a valuable Egyptian horse who would throw, they said, the best rider in the world.
Even if a man could succeed in getting on his back, it was not an instant he could stay there. But there came to
England on a visit a distinguished Eastern bey, with his mamelukes, who, hearing of the matter which was the
talk of the town, declared that the animal should be ridden. Accordingly many royal personages and noblemen
met the Orientals at the riding house of the Prince, in Pall Mall, a mameluke's saddle was put on the vicious
creature, who was led in, looking in a white heat of fury, wicked, with danger in his eyes, when, behold, the
bey's chief officer sprung on his back and rode for half an hour as easily as a lady would amble on the most
spiritless pony that ever was bridled.
STRETCHING HIMSELF.
Some men have a tact, a way with animals, and can do anything with them. It is a born gift, a rare one, and a
precious one. There was a certain tamer of lions and tigers, Henri Marten by name, who lately died at the age
of ninety, who tamed by his personal influence alone. It was said of him in France, that at the head of an army
he "might have been a Bonaparte. Chance has made a man of genius a director of a menagerie."
Professor Bartholomew was ready to talk about his way, but a part of it is the man himself. He could not make
known to another what is the most essential requisite. He, too, brought genius to his work; besides that, a
certain indefinable mastership which animals recognize, love for them, and a vast amount of perseverance and
patient waiting. It is a thing that is not done in a day.
He was fond of horses from a boy, and began early to educate one, having a remarkable faculty for handling
them; so that now, after thirty years of it, there is not much about the equine nature that he does not
understand. He trained a company of Bronchos, which were afterwards sold; and since then he has gradually
got together the fifteen he now exhibits, and he has others in process of training. He took these when they
were young, two or three years old; and not one of them, except Jim, who has a bit of outside history, has ever
been used in any other way. They know nothing about carriages or carts, harness or saddle; they have escaped
the cruel curb-bits, the check reins and blinders of our civilization. Fortunate in that respect. And they never
have had a shoe on their feet. Their feet are perfect, firm and sound, strong and healthy and elastic; natural,
like those of the Indians, who run barefoot, who go over the rough places of the wilds as easily as these horses
can run up the stairs or over the cobble stones of the pavement if they were turned loose in the street.
MILITARY DRILL.
It was a pleasure to know of their life-long exemption from all such restraints. That accounted in great
measure for their beautiful freedom of motion, for that wondrous grace and charm. Did you ever think what a
complexity of muscles, bones, joints, tendons and other arrangements, enter into the formation of the knees,
hoofs, legs of a horse; what a piece of mechanism the strong, supple creature is?
These have never had their spirits broken; have never been scolded at or struck except when a whip was
necessary as a rod sometimes is for a child. The hostlers who take care of them are not allowed to speak
roughly. "Be low-spoken to them," the master says. In the years when he was educating them he groomed and
cared for them himself, with no other help except that of his two little sons. No one else was allowed to
meddle with them; and, necessarily, they were kept separate from other horses. Now, wherever they are
exhibiting, he always goes out the first thing in the morning to see them. He passes from one to another, and
they are all expecting the little love pats and slaps on their glossy sides, the caressings and fondlings and
pleasant greetings of "Chevalier, how are you, old fellow?" "Abdallah, my beauty," and, "Nellie, my pet!"
Some are jealous, Abdallah tremendously so, and if he does not at once notice her, she lays her ears back,
shows temper, and crowds up to him, determined that no other shall have precedence.
A PRETTY TABLEAU.
They are not "thorough-breds." Those, he said, were for racers or travellers; yet of fine breeds, some choice
blood horses, some mixed, one a mustang, who at first did not know anything that was wanted of him.
"Why," said he, "at first some of them would go up like pop corn, higher than my head. But I never once have
been injured by one of them except perhaps an accidental stepping on my foot. They never kick; they don't
know how to kick. You can go behind them as well as before, and anywhere."
In buying he chose only those whose looks showed that they were intelligent. "But how did he know, by what
signs?" queried an all-absorbed "Dumb Animals" woman.
"Oh, dear," he said, "why, every way; the eyes, the ears, the whole face, the expression, everything. No two
horses' faces look alike. Just as it is with a flock of sheep. A stranger would say, 'Why, they are all sheep, and
all alike, and that is all there is to it;' but the owner knows better; he knows every face in the flock. He says,
'this is Jenny, and that is Dolly, there is Jim, and here's Nancy.' Oh, land, yes! they are no more alike than
human beings are, disposition or anything. Some have to be ordered, and some coaxed and flattered. Yes,
flattered. Now if two men come and want to work for me, I can tell as soon as I cast my eyes on them. I say to
one, 'Go and do such a thing;' but if I said it to the other, he'd answer 'I won't; I'm not going to be ordered
about by any man.' Horses are just like that. A horse can read you. If you get mad, he will. If you abuse him,
he will do the same by you, or try to. You must control yourself, if you would control a horse."
They must be of superior grade, "for it's of no use to spend one's time on a dull one. It does not pay to teach
idiots where you want brilliant results, though all well enough for a certain purpose."
Some of these he had been five years in educating to do what we saw. Some he had taught to do their special
part in one year, some in two. The first thing he did was to give the horse opportunity and time to get well
acquainted with him; in his words, "to become friends. Let him see that you are his friend, that you are not
going to whip him. You meet him cordially. You are glad to see him and be with him, and pretty soon he
What a horse has once learned he never or seldom forgets. Mr. Bartholomew thinks it is not as has sometimes
been said, because a horse has a memory stronger than a man, "but because he has fewer things to learn. A
man sees a million things. A horse's mind cannot accommodate what a man's can, so those things he knows
have a better chance. Those few things he fixes. His memory fastens on them. I once had a pony I had trained,
which was afterwards gone from me three years. At the end of that time I was in California exhibiting, and
saw a boy on the pony. I tried to buy him, but the boy who had owned him all that time, refused to part with
him; however, I offered such a price that I got him, and that same evening I took him into the tent and thought
I would see what he remembered. He went through all his old tricks (besides a few I had myself forgotten)
except one. He could not manage walking on his hind feet the distance he used to. Another time I had a
trained horse stolen from me by the Indians, and he was off in the wilds with them a year and a half. One day,
in a little village—that was in California too—I saw him and knew him, and the horse knew me.
I went up to the Indian who had him and said, 'That is my horse, and I can prove it.' Out there a stolen horse,
no matter how many times he has changed hands, is given up, if the owner can prove it. The Indian said, 'If
you can, you shall have him, but you won't do it.' I said, 'I will try him in four things; I will ask him to trot
three times around a circle, to lie down, to sit up, and to bring me my handkerchief. If he is my horse, he will
do it.' The Indian said, 'You shall have him if he does, but he won't!' By this time a crowd had got together.
We put the horse in an enclosure, he did as he was told, and I had him back."
Mr. Bartholomew said, "My motto in educating them is, 'Make haste slowly;' I never require too much, and I
never ask a horse to do what he can't do. That is of no use. A horse can't learn what horses are not capable of
learning; and he can't do a thing until he understands what you mean, and how you want it done. What good
would it do for me to ask a man a question in French if he did not know a word of the language? I get him
used to the word, and show him what I want. If it is to climb up somewhere, I gently put his foot up and have
him keep it there until I am ready to have it come down, and then I take it down myself. I never let the horse
do it. The same with other things, showing him how, and by words. They know a great number of words. My
horses are not influenced by signs or motions when they are on the stage. They use their intelligence and
memory, and they associate ideas and are required to obey. They learn a great deal by observing one another.
One watches and learns by seeing the others. I taught one horse to kneel, by first bending his knee myself, and
putting him into position. After he had learned, I took another in who kept watch all the time, and learned
partly by imitation. They are social creatures; they love each other's company."
Most of these horses have been together now for several years, and are fond of one another. They appear to
keep the run of the whole performance, and listen and notice like children in a school when one or more of
their number goes out to recite. It was extremely interesting to observe them when the leap-frog game was
going on. Owing to the smallness of the stage, it was difficult for the horse who was to make the jump to get
under headway, and several times poor Sprite, or whichever it was, would turn abruptly to make another start,
upon which every horse on her side would dart out for a chance at giving her a nip as she went by. They all
seemed throughout the entire exhibition to feel a sort of responsibility, or at least a pride in it, as if "this is our
school. See how well Bucephalus minds, or how badly Brutus behaves! This is our regiment. Don't we march
well? How fine and grand, how gallant and gay we are!" And the wonder of it all is, not so much what any
one horse can do, or the sense of humor they show, or the great number of words they understand, but the
mental processes and nice calculation they show in the feats where they are associated in complex ways,
which require that each must act his part independently and mind nothing about it if another happens to make
a mistake.
VICTORY.
To obtain any adequate representation of these horses while performing, it was necessary that it be done by
process called instantaneous photographing. You are aware that birds and insects are taken by means of an
instrument named the "photographic revolver," which is aimed at them. Recently an American, Mr.
Muybridge, has been able to photograph horses while galloping or trotting, by his "battery of cameras," and a
book on "the Horse in Motion" has for its subject this instantaneous catching a likeness as applied to animals.
But how could any process, however swift, or ingenious, or admirable, do full justice to the grace and spirit,
the all-alive attitudes and varieties of posture, the dalliance and charm, the freedom in action?
an you put the spider's web back in its place, that once has been swept away?
Can you put the apple again on the bough, which fell at our feet to-day?
Can you put the lily-cup back on the stem, and cause it to live and grow?
Can you mend the butterfly's broken wing, that you crushed with a hasty blow?
Can you put the bloom again on the grape, or the grape again on the vine?
Can you put the dewdrops back on the flowers, and make them sparkle and shine?
Can you put the petals back on the rose? If you could, would it smell as sweet?
Can you put the flour again in the husk, and show me the ripened wheat?
Can you put the kernel back in the nut, or the broken egg in its shell?
Can you put the honey back in the comb, and cover with wax each cell?
Can you put the perfume back in the vase, when once it has sped away?
Can you put the corn-silk back on the corn, or the down on the catkins—say?
You think that my questions are trifling, dear? Let me ask you another one:
KATE LAWRENCE.
QUESTIONS. 50
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Our Boys, by Various
AMANDA B. HARRIS.
M.E.B.
There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears;
But a comrade stood beside him while his life-blood ebbed away,
And he said, "I never more shall see my own, my native land;
"Tell my brothers and companions when they meet and crowd around
That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done,
Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sun;
And, 'mid the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars,
And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline,
And one had come from Bingen, fair Bingen on the Rhine.
"Tell my mother that her other son shall comfort her old age;
For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage.
My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild;
I let them take whate'er they would, but I kept my father's sword;
And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine
"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head,
When the troops come marching home again with glad and gallant tread,
But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,
For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to die;
And to hang the old sword in its place, my father's sword and mine;
You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye;
Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risen
I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine,
"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along; I heard, or seemed to hear,
The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still;
And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk
His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse, his grasp was childish weak,
His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled—
And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down
Yet calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine,
OSITO.
n the lofty mountain that faced the captain's cabin the frost had already made an insidious
approach, and the slender thickets of quaking ash that marked the course of each tiny torrent, now stood out in
resplendent hues and shone afar off like gay ribbons running through the dark-green pines. Gorgeously, too,
with scarlet, crimson and gold, gleamed the lower spurs, where the oak-brush grew in dense masses and bore
beneath a blaze of color, a goodly harvest of acorns, now ripe and loosened in their cups.
It was where one of these spurs joined the parent mountain, where the oak-brush grew thickest, and, as a
consequence, the acorns were most abundant, that the captain, well versed in wood-craft mysteries, had built
his bear trap. For two days he had been engaged upon it, and now, as the evening drew on, he sat
contemplating it with satisfaction, as a work finished and perfected.
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From his station there, on the breast of the lofty mountain, the captain could scan many an acre of sombre pine
forest with pleasant little parks interspersed, and here and there long slopes brown with bunch grass. He was
the lord of this wild domain. And yet his sway there was not undisputed. Behind an intervening spur to the
westward ran an old Indian trail long traveled by the Southern Utes in their migrations north for trading and
hunting purposes. And even now, a light smoke wafted upward on the evening air, told of a band encamped
on the trail on their homeward journey to the Southwest.
The captain needed not this visual token of their proximity. He had been aware of it for several days. Their
calls at his cabin in the lonely little park below had been frequent, and they had been specially solicitous of his
coffee, his sugar, his biscuit and other delicacies, insomuch that once or twice during his absence these
ingenuous children of Nature had with primitive simplicity, entered his cabin and helped themselves without
leave or stint.
However, as he knew their stay would be short, the captain bore these neighborly attentions with mild
forbearance. It was guests more graceless than these who had roused his wrath.
From their secret haunts far back towards the Snowy Range the bears had come down to feast upon the
ripened acorns, and so doing, had scented the captain's bacon and sugar afar off and had prowled by night
about the cabin. Nay, more, three days before, the captain, having gone hurriedly away and left the door
loosely fastened, upon his return had found all in confusion. Many of his eatables had vanished, his flour sack
was ripped open, and, unkindest cut of all, his beloved books lay scattered about. At the first indignant glance
the captain had cried out, "Utes again!" But on looking around he saw a tell-tale trail left by floury bear paws.
It was but a strong log pen floored with rough-hewn slabs and fitted with a ponderous movable lid made of
other slabs pinned on stout cross pieces. But, satisfied with his handiwork, the captain now arose, and, prying
up one end of the lid with a lever, set the trigger and baited it with a huge piece of bacon. He then piled a great
quantity of rock upon the already heavy lid to further guard against the escape of any bear so unfortunate as to
enter, and shouldering his axe and rifle walked homewards.
Whatever vengeful visions of captive bears he was indulging in were, however, wholly dispelled as he drew
near the cabin. Before the door stood the Ute chief accompanied by two squaws. "How!" said the chieftain,
with a conciliatory smile, laying one hand on his breast of bronze and extending the other as the captain
approached.
"How!" returned the captain bluffly, disdaining the hand with a recollection of sundry petty thefts.
"Has the great captain seen a pappoose about his wigwam?" asked the chief, nowise abashed, in
Spanish—a language which many of the Southern Utes speak as fluently as their own.
The great captain had expected a request for a biscuit; he, therefore, was naturally surprised at being asked for
a baby. With an effort he mustered together his Spanish phrases and managed to reply that he had seen no
pappoose.
"Me pappoose lost," said one of the squaws brokenly. And there was so much distress in her voice that the
captain, forgetting instantly all about the slight depredations of his dusky neighbors, volunteered to aid them
in their search for the missing child.
All that night, for it was by this time nearly dark, the hills flared with pine torches and resounded with the
shrill cries of the squaws, the whoops of the warriors, the shouts of the captain; but the search was fruitless.
OSITO. 75
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This adventure drove the bear-trap from its builder's mind, and it was two days before it occurred to him to go
there in quest of captive bears.
Coming in view of it he immediately saw the lid was down. Hastily he approached, bent over, and peeped in.
And certainly, in the whole of his adventurous life the captain was never more taken by surprise; for there,
crouched in one corner, was that precious Indian infant.
Yes, true it was, that all those massive timbers, all that ponderous mass of rock, had only availed to capture
one very small Ute pappoose. At the thought of it, the builder of the trap was astounded. He laughed aloud at
the absurdity. In silence he threw off the rock and lid and seated himself on the edge of the open trap. Captor
and captive then gazed at each other with gravity. The errant infant's attire consisted of a calico shirt of gaudy
hues, a pair of little moccasins, much frayed, and a red flannel string. This last was tied about his straggling
hair, which fell over his forehead like the shaggy mane of a bronco colt and veiled, but could not obscure, the
brightness of his black eyes.
He did not cry; in fact, this small stoic never even whimpered, but he held the bacon, or what remained of it,
clasped tightly to his breast and gazed at his captor in silence. Glancing at the bacon, the captain saw it all.
Hunger had induced this wee wanderer to enter the trap, and in detaching the bait, he had sprung the trigger
and was caught.
"What are you called, little one?" asked the captain at length, in a reassuring voice, speaking Spanish very
slowly and distinctly.
"Osito," replied the wanderer in a small piping voice, but with the dignity of a warrior.
"Little Bear!" the captain repeated, and burst into a hearty laugh, immediately checked, however by the
thought that now he had caught him, what was he to do with him? The first thing, evidently, was to feed him.
So he conducted him to the cabin and there, observing the celerity with which the lumps of sugar vanished, he
saw at once that Little Bear was most aptly named. Then, sometimes leading, and sometimes carrying him, for
Osito was very small, he set out for the Ute encampment.
Their approach was the signal for a mighty shout. Warriors, squaws and the younger confrères of Osito,
crowded about him. A few words from the captain explained all, and Osito himself, clinging to his mother,
was borne away in triumph—the hero of the hour. Yet, no—the captain was that, I believe. For
as he stood in their midst with a very pleased look on his sunburnt face, the chief quieting the hubbub with a
wave of his hand, advanced and stood before him. "The great captain has a good heart," he said in tones of
conviction. "What can his Ute friends do to show their gratitude?"
"The captain has been troubled by the bears. Would it please him if they were all driven back to their dens in
the great mountains towards the setting sun?"
"It can. It shall," said the chief with emphasis. "To-morrow let the captain keep his eyes open, and as the sun
sinks behind the mountain tops he shall see the bears follow also."
The chief kept his word. The next day the uproar on the hills was terrific. Frightened out of their wits, the
bears forsook the acorn field and fled ingloriously to their secret haunts in the mountains to the westward.
OSITO. 76
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F.L. STEALEY.
HARRIET S. FLEMING.
Can you swim and dive, can you jump and run,
E.J. WHEELER.
Little Mer-Folks.
WON'T TAKE A BAFF.
ESCAPE.
To the brook in the green meadow dancing,
MARGARET EYTINGE.
(A True Story.)
" apa," exclaimed six-year-old Marland, leaning against his father's knee after listening to a true
story, "I wish I could be as brave as that!"
"But maybe I sha'n't ever be on a railroad train when there is going to be an accident!"
"Ah! but there are sure to be plenty of other ways for a brave man to show himself."
Several days after this, when Marland had quite forgotten about trying to be brave, thinking, indeed, that he
would have to wait anyway until he was a man, he and his little playmate, Ada, a year younger, were playing
in the dog-kennel. It was a very large kennel, so that the two children often crept into it to "play house." After
awhile, Marland, who, of course, was playing the papa of the house, was to go "down town" to his business;
he put his little head out of the door of the kennel, and was just about to creep out, when right in front of him
in the path he saw a snake. He knew in a moment just what sort of a snake it was, and how dangerous it was;
he knew it was a rattlesnake, and that if it bit Ada or him, they would probably die. For Marland had spent
two summers on his papa's big ranch in Kansas, and he had been told over and over again, if he ever saw a
snake to run away from it as fast as he could, and this snake just in front of him was making the queer little
noise with the rattles at the end of his tail which Marland had heard enough about to be able to recognize.
(A True Story.) 92
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Now you must know that a rattlesnake is not at all like a lion or a bear, although just as dangerous in its own
way. It will not chase you; it can only spring a distance equal to its own length, and it has to wait and coil
itself up in a ring, sounding its warning all the time, before it can strike at all. So if you are ever so little
distance from it when you see it first, you can easily escape from it. The only danger is from stepping on it
without seeing it. But Marland's snake was already coiled, and it was hardly more than a foot from the
entrance to the kennel. You must know that the kennel was not out in an open field, either, but under a piazza,
and a lattice work very near it left a very narrow passage for the children, even when there wasn't any snake.
If they had been standing upright, they could have run, narrow as the way was; but they would have to crawl
out of the kennel and find room for their entire little bodies on the ground before they could straighten
themselves up and run. Fortunately, the snake's head was turned the other way.
"Ada," said Marland very quietly, so quietly that his grandpapa, raking the gravel on the walk near by, did not
hear, him, "there's a snake out here, and it is a rattlesnake. Keep very still and crawl right after me."
"Yes, Ada," he whispered, as he succeeded in squirming himself out and wriggling past the snake till he could
stand upright. "There's room, but you mustn't make any noise!"
Five minutes later the two children sauntered slowly down the avenue, hand in hand.
"Grandpapa," said Marland, "there's a rattlesnake in there where Ada and I were; perhaps you'd better kill
him!"
And when the snake had been killed, and papa for the hundredth time had folded his little boy in his arms and
murmured, "My brave boy! my dear, brave little boy!" Marland looked up in surprise.
"Why, it wasn't I that killed the snake, papa! it was grandpapa! I didn't do anything; I only kept very still and
ran away!"
But you see, in that case, keeping very still and running away was just the bravest thing the little fellow could
have done; and I think his mamma—for I am his mamma, and so I know just how she did
feel—felt when she took him in her arms that night that in her little boy's soul there was something of
the stuff of which heroes are made.
... THE LEAST LITTLE THING HATH MESSAGE SO WONDEROUS AND TENDER.
MIDSUMMER WORDS.
MIDSUMMER WORDS. 96
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MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY.
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
"Wake, Otanes, wake, the Magi are singing the morning hymn to Mithras. Quick, or we shall be late at the
exercises, and father promised, if we did well, we should go to the chase with him to-day."
"And perhaps shoot a lion. What a feather in our caps that would be! Is it pleasant?"
Smerdis pulled open the shutters that closed the windows, and the first rays of the sun sparkled on the trees
and fountains of a beautiful garden beyond whose lofty walls appeared the dwellings and towers of a mighty
city. Already the low roar of its traffic reached them while hurrying on their clothes to join their companions
in the spacious grounds where they were trained in wrestling, throwing blocks of wood at each other to
acquire agility in dodging the missiles, the skilful use of the bow, and various other exercises for the
development of bodily strength and grace.
A few minutes later the two brothers, Smerdis and Otanes, with scores of other lads, ranging in age from
seven to fourteen years, were assembled in a vast playground, surrounded on all sides by a lofty wall.
It almost might be called so, but the pupils of this boarding-school were educated free of expense to their
parents, and it received only the sons of the highest nobles in the land. This playground was attached to the
palace of Darius, King of Persia, who reigned twenty-four hundred years ago, and these chosen boys had been
taken from their homes, as they reached the age of six years, to be reared "at his gate," as the language of the
country expressed it.
Otanes and Smerdis were sons of one of the highest officers of the court, the "ear of the king," or, as he would
now be called, the Minister of Police. Handsome little fellows of eleven and twelve, with blue eyes, fair
complexions, and curling yellow locks, their long training in all sorts of physical exercises had made them
stronger and hardier than most lads of their age in our time. Though reared in a palace, at one of the most
splendid courts the world has ever seen, the boys were expected to endure the hardships of the poorest
laborer's children. Instead of the gold and silver bedsteads used by the nobles, they were obliged to sleep on
the floor; if the court was at Babylon, they were forced to make long marches under the burning sun of Asia,
and if, to escape the intense heat, the king removed to his summer palaces at Ecbatana and Pasargadæ,
situated in the mountainous regions of Persia, where it was often bitterly cold, the boys were ordered to bathe
in the icy water of the rivers flowing from the heights. In place of the dainty dishes and sweetmeats for which
Persian cooks were famous, they were allowed nothing but bread, water, and a little meat; sometimes to
accustom them to hardships they were deprived entirely of food for a day or even longer.
Their father's palace stood at no great distance from the royal residence, on the long, wide street extending
straight to the city gates, and like the houses of all the Persian nobles, was surrounded by a beautiful walled
garden called a paradise, laid out with flower-beds of roses, poppies, oleanders, ornamental plants, adorned
with fountains, and shaded by lofty trees.
The hunting party was nearly ready to start, and the courtyard was thronged. Servants rushed to and fro
bearing shields, swords, lances, bows and lassos, for a hunter was always equipped with bow and arrows, two
lances, a sword and a shield. Others held in leash the dogs to be used in starting the game.
The enormous preserves in the neighborhood of Babylon were well stocked with animals, including stags,
wild boars, and a few lions. Several noblemen clad in the plain hunting costume always worn in the chase,
were already mounted, among them the father of the two lads, who greeted them affectionately as they
respectfully approached and kissed his hand.
"Make haste, boys, your horses are ready. Take only bows and shields—the swords and lances will be
in your way; you must not try to deal with larger game than you can manage with your arrows."
"May we not carry daggers in our belts, too, father?" cried Otanes eagerly. "They can't be in our way, and if
we should meet a lion—"
A laugh from the group of nobles interrupted him. "Your son seeks large game, Intaphernes!" exclaimed a
handsome officer. "He must have better weapons than a bow and dagger, if—"
The rest of the sentence was drowned by the noise in the courtyard, but as the party rode towards the gate
Intaphernes looked back: "Yes, take the daggers, it can do no harm. Keep with Candaules."
The old slave, a gray-haired, but muscular man, with several other attendants, joined the lads, and the long
train passed out into the street and toward the city gates. Otanes hastily whispered to his brother: "Keep close
by me, Smerdis; if only we catch sight of a lion, we'll show what we can do with bows and arrows."
The sun was now several hours high, and the streets, lined with tall brick houses, were crowded with
people—artisans, slaves, soldiers, nobles and citizens, the latter clad in white linen shirts, gay woollen
tunics and short cloaks. Two-wheeled wooden vehicles, drawn by horses decked with bells and tassels, litters
containing veiled women borne by slaves, and now and then, the superb gilded carriage, hung with silk
curtains, of some royal princess passed along. Here and there a heavily laden camel moved slowly by, and the
next instant a soldier of the king's bodyguard dashed past in his superb uniform—a gold cuirass, purple
surcoat, and high Persian cap, the gold scabbard of his sword and the gold apple on his lance-tip flashing in
the sun.
Otanes and Smerdis, chatting eagerly together, rode on as fast as the crowd would permit, and soon reached
one of the gates in the huge walls that defended the city. These walls, seventy-five feet high, and wide enough
to allow two chariots to drive abreast, were strengthened by two hundred and fifty towers, except on one side,
where deep marshes extended to their base. Beyond these marshes lay the hunting-grounds, and the party,
turning to the left, rode for a time over a smooth highway, between broad tracts of land sown with wheat,
barley and sesame. Slender palm-trees covered with clusters of golden dates were seen in every direction, and
the sunbeams shimmered on the canals and ditches which conducted water from the Euphrates to all parts of
the fields.
Otanes' horse suddenly shied violently as a rider, mounted on a fleet steed, and carrying a large pouch, dashed
by like the wind.
"One of the Augari bearing letters to the next station!" exclaimed Smerdis. "See how he skims along. Hi! If I
were not to be one of the king's bodyguard, I'd try for an Augar's place. How he goes! He's almost out of sight
already."
"Eighteen miles. And when he gets there, he'll just toss the letter bag to the next man, who is sitting on a fresh
horse waiting for it, and away he'll go like lightning. That's the way the news is carried to the very end of the
empire of our lord the King."
"Must be fine fun," replied Otanes. "But see, there's the gate of the hunting-park. Now for the lion," he added
gayly.
"May Ormuzd2 save you from meeting one, my young master," said the old servant, Candaules. "Luckily it's
broad daylight, and they are more apt to come from their lairs after dark. Better begin with smaller game and
leave the lion and wild boars to your father."
"Not if we catch sight of them," cried Otanes, settling his shield more firmly on his arm, and urging his horse
to a quicker pace, for the head of the long train of attendants had already disappeared amid the dark
cypress-trees of the hunting park. The immense enclosure stretching from the edge of the morasses that
bordered the walls of Babylon far into the country, soon echoed with the shouts of the attendants beating the
coverts for game, the baying of the dogs, the hiss of lances and whir of arrows. Bright-hued birds, roused by
the tumult, flew wildly hither and thither, now and then the superb plumage of a bird of paradise flashing like
a jewel among the dense foliage of cypress and nut-trees.
Hour after hour sped swiftly away; the party had dispersed in different directions, following the course of the
game; the sun was sinking low, and the slaves were bringing the slaughtered birds and beasts to the wagons
used to convey them home. A magnificent stag was among the spoil, and a fierce wild boar, after a long
struggle, had fallen under a thrust from Intaphernes's lance.
The shrill blast of the Median trumpet sounded thrice, to give the first of the three signals for the scattered
hunters to meet at the appointed place, near the entrance of the park, and the two young brothers who,
attended by Candaules and half a dozen slaves, had ridden far into the shady recesses of the woods, reluctantly
turned their horses' heads. No thought of disobeying the summons entered their minds—Persian boys
were taught that next to truth and courage, obedience was the highest virtue, and rarely was a command
They had had a good day's sport; few arrows remained in their quivers, and the attendants carried bunches of
gay plumaged birds and several small animals, among them a pretty little fawn. "Let's go nearer the marshes;
there are not so many trees, and we can ride faster," said Otanes as the trumpet-call was repeated, and the little
party turned in that direction, moving more swiftly as they passed out upon the strip of open ground between
the thicket and the marshes. The sun was just setting. The last crimson rays, shimmering on the pools of water
standing here and there in the morasses, cast reflections on the tall reeds and rushes bordering their margins.
Suddenly a pretty spotted fawn darted in front of the group, and crossing the open ground, vanished amid a
thick clump of reeds. "What a nice pet the little creature would make for our sister Hadassah!" cried Otanes
eagerly. "See! it has hidden among the reeds; we might take it alive. Go with Candaules and the slaves,
Smerdis, and form a half-circle beyond the clump. When you're ready, whistle, and I'll ride straight down and
drive it towards you; you can easily catch it then. We are so near the entrance of the park now that we shall
have plenty of time; the third signal hasn't sounded yet."
Smerdis instantly agreed to the plan. The horses were fastened to some trees, and the men cautiously made a
wide circuit, passed the bed of reeds, and concealed themselves, behind the tall rushes beyond. A low whistle
gave Otanes the signal to drive out the fawn.
Smerdis and the slaves saw the lad straighten himself in the saddle, and with a shout, dash at full speed
towards the spot where the fawn had vanished. He had almost reached it when the stiff stalks shook violently,
and a loud roar made them all spring to their feet. They saw the brave boy check his horse and fit an arrow to
the string, but as he drew the bow, there was a stronger rustle among the reeds; a tawny object flashed through
the air, striking Otanes from his saddle, while the horse free from its rider, dashed, snorting with terror,
towards the park entrance.
"A lion! A lion!" shrieked the trembling slaves, but Smerdis, drawing his dagger, ran towards the place where
his brother had fallen, passing close by the body of the fawn which lay among the reeds with its head crushed
by a blow from the lion's paw. Candaules followed close at the lad's heels.
Parting the thick growth of stalks, they saw, only a few paces off, Otanes, covered with blood, lying
motionless on the ground, and beside him the dead body of a half-grown lion, the boy's arrow buried in one
eye, while the blood still streamed from the lance-wound in the animal's side.
Smerdis, weeping, threw himself beside his brother, and at the same moment Intaphernes, with several nobles
and attendants, attracted by the cries, dashed up to the spot. The father, springing from the saddle, bent, and
laid his hand on the boy's heart.
"It is beating still, and strongly too," he exclaimed. "Throw water in his face! perhaps—"
Without finishing the sentence, he carefully examined the motionless form. "Ormuzd be praised! He has no
wound; the blood has flowed from the lion. See, Prexaspes, there is a lance-head sticking in its side. I believe
it's the very beast you wounded early in the day."
The officer whose laugh had so vexed Otanes, stooped over the dead lion and looked at the broken shaft.
"Ay, it's my weapon; the beast probably made its way to the morass for water; but, by Mithras!3 the lad's
arrow killed the brute; the barb passed through the eyeball into the brain."
"Yes, my lord," cried old Candaules eagerly, "and doubtless it was only the weight of the animal, which,
striking my young master as it made its spring, hurled him from the saddle and stunned him. See! he is
opening his eyes. Otanes, Otanes, you've killed the lion!"
The boy's eyelids fluttered, then slowly rose, his eyes wandered over the group, and at last rested on the dead
lion. The old slave's words had evidently reached his ear, for with a faint smile he glanced archly at
Prexaspes, and raising himself on one elbow, said:
MARY J. SAFFORD.
Footnote 1: (return)
Footnote 2: (return)
Footnote 3: (return)
M.M.P. DINSMOOR.
"Dear me," quoth the king, who'd been over the seas,
MAY E. STONE.
heir mother had died crossing the plains, and their father had had a leg broken by a wagon wheel
passing over it as they descended the Sierras, and he was for a long time after reaching the mines miserable,
lame and poor.
The eldest boy, Jim Keene, as I remember him, was a bright little fellow, but wild as an Indian and full of
mischief. The next eldest child, Madge, was a girl of ten, her father's favorite, and she was wild enough too.
The youngest was Stumps. Poor, timid, starved Little Stumps! I never knew his real name. But he was the
baby, and hardly yet out of petticoats. And he was very short in the legs, very short in the body, very short in
the arms and neck; and so he was called Stumps because he looked it. In fact he seemed to have stopped
growing entirely. Oh, you don't know how hard the old Plains were on everybody, when we crossed them in
ox-wagons, and it took more than half a year to make the journey. The little children, those that did not die,
turned brown like the Indians, in that long, dreadful journey of seven months, and stopped growing for a time.
For the first month or two after reaching the Sierras, old Mr. Keene limped about among the mines trying to
learn the mystery of finding gold, and the art of digging. But at last, having grown strong enough, he went to
work for wages, to get bread for his half-wild little ones, for they were destitute indeed.
Things seemed to move on well, then. Madge cooked the simple meals, and Little Stumps clung to her dress
with his little pinched brown hand wherever she went, while Jim whooped it over the hills and chased
jack-rabbits as if he were a greyhound. He would climb trees, too, like a squirrel. And, oh!—it was
deplorable—but how he could swear!
At length some of the miners, seeing the boy must come to some bad end if not taken care of, put their heads
and their pockets together and sent the children to school. This school was a mile away over the beautiful
brown hills, a long, pleasant walk under the green California oaks.
Well, Jim would take the little tin dinner bucket, and his slate, and all their books under his arm and go
booming ahead about half a mile in advance, while Madge with brown Little Stumps clinging to her side like
a burr, would come stepping along the trail under the oak-trees as fast as she could after him.
But if a jack-rabbit, or a deer, or a fox crossed Jim's path, no matter how late it was, or how the teacher had
threatened him, he would drop books, lunch, slate and all, and spitting on his hands and rolling up his sleeves,
would bound away after it, yelling like a wild Indian. And some days, so fascinating was the chase, Jim did
not appear at the schoolhouse at all; and of course Madge and Stumps played truant too. Sometimes a week
together would pass and the Keene children would not be seen at the schoolhouse. Visits from the
schoolmaster produced no lasting effect. The children would come for a day or two, then be seen no more.
The schoolmaster and their father at last had a serious talk about the matter.
"You'll have to put him to work," said the schoolmaster. "Set him to hunting nuggets instead of bird's-nests. I
guess what the boy wants is some honest means of using his strength. He's a good boy, Mr. Keene; don't
despair of him. Jim would be proud to be an 'honest miner.' Jim's a good boy, Mr. Keene."
"Well, then, thank you, Schoolmaster," said Mr. Keene. "Jim's a good boy; and Madge is good, Mr.
Schoolmaster; and poor starved and stunted motherless Little Stumps, he is good as gold, Mr. Schoolmaster.
And I want to be a mother to 'em—I want to be father and mother to 'em all, Mr. Schoolmaster. And I'll
follow your advice. I'll put 'em all to work a-huntin' for gold."
The next day away up on the hillside under a pleasant oak, where the air was sweet and cool, and the ground
soft and dotted over with flowers, the tender-hearted old man that wanted to be "father and mother both,"
"located" a claim. The flowers were kept fresh by a little stream of waste water from the ditch that girded the
brow of the hill above. Here he set a sluice-box and put his three little miners at work with pick, pan and
shovel. There he left them and limped back to his own place in the mine below.
And how they did work! And how pleasant it was here under the broad boughs of the oak, with the water
rippling through the sluice on the soft, loose soil which they shoveled into the long sluice-box. They could see
the mule-trains going and coming, and the clouds of dust far below which told them the stage was whirling up
the valley. But Jim kept steadily on at his work day after day. Even though jack-rabbits and squirrels appeared
on the very scene, he would not leave till, like the rest of the honest miners, he could shoulder his pick and
pan and go down home with the setting sun.
One Saturday evening the old man limped up the hillside to help the young miners "clean up."
"What for you put your hand in de water for, papa?" queried Little Stumps, who had left off his work, which
consisted mainly of pulling flowers and putting them in the sluice-box to see them float away. He was sitting
by his father's side, and he looked up in his face as he spoke.
"Hush, child," said the old man softly, as he again dipped his thumb and finger in his vest pocket as if about to
take snuff. But he did not take snuff. Again his hand was reached down to the rippling water at the head of the
sluice-box. And this time curious but obedient Little Stumps was silent.
Suddenly there was a shout, such a shout from Jim as the hills had not heard since he was a schoolboy.
He had found the "color." "Two colors! three, four, five—a dozen!" The boy shouted like a Modoc,
threw down the brush and scraper, and kissed his little sister over and over, and cried as he did so; then he
whispered softly to her as he again took up his brush and scraper, that it was "for papa; all for poor papa; that
he did not care for himself, but he did want to help poor, tired, and crippled papa." But papa did not seem to
be excited so very much.
The little miners were now continually wild with excitement. They were up and at work Monday morning at
dawn. The men who were in the father's tender secret, congratulated the children heartily and made them
presents of several small nuggets to add to their little hoard.
In this way they kept steadily at work for half the summer. All the gold was given to papa to keep. Papa
weighed it each week, and I suppose secretly congratulated himself that he was getting back about as much as
he put in.
Before quite the end of the third month, Jim struck a thin bed of blue gravel. The miners who had been
happily chuckling and laughing among themselves to think how they had managed to keep Jim out of
mischief, began to look at each other and wonder how in the world blue gravel ever got up there on the hill.
And in a few days more there was a well-defined bed of blue gravel, too; and not one of the miners could
make it out.
One Saturday evening shortly after, as the old man weighed their gold he caught his breath, started, and stood
up straight; straighter than he had stood since he crossed the Plains. Then he hastily left the cabin. He went up
the hill to the children's claim almost without limping. Then he took a pencil and an old piece of a letter, and
wrote out a notice and tacked it up on the big oak-tree, claiming those mining claims according to miners' law,
for the three children. A couple of miners laughed as they went by in the twilight, to see what he was doing;
and he laughed with them. But as he limped on down the hill he smiled.
That night as they sat at supper, he told the children that as they had been such faithful and industrious miners,
he was going to give them each a present, besides a little gold to spend as they pleased.
So he went up to the store and bought Jim a red shirt, long black and bright gum boots, a broad-brimmed hat,
and a belt. He also bought each of the other children some pretty trappings, and gave each a dollar's worth of
gold dust. Madge and Stumps handed their gold back to "poor papa." But Jim was crazy with excitement. He
put on his new clothes and went forth to spend his dollar. And what do you suppose he bought? I hesitate to
tell you. But what he bought was a pipe and a paper of tobacco!
That red shirt, that belt and broad-brimmed hat, together with the shiny top boots, had been too much for Jim's
balance. How could a man—he spoke of himself as a man now—how could a man be an "honest
miner" and not smoke a pipe?
And now with his manly clothes and his manly pipe he was to be so happy! He had all that went to make up
"the honest miner." True, he did not let his father know about the pipe. He hid it under his pillow at night. He
meant to have his first smoke at the sluice-box, as a miner should.
Monday morning he was up with the sun and ready for his work. His father, who worked down the Gulch, had
already gone before the children had finished their breakfast. So now Jim filled his bran-new pipe very
leisurely; and with as much calm unconcern as if he had been smoking for forty years, he stopped to scratch a
match on the door as he went out.
From under his broad hat he saw his little sister watching him, and he fairly swelled with importance as
Stumps looked up at him with childish wonder. Leaving Madge to wash the few tin dishes and follow as she
He met several miners, but he puffed away like a tug-boat against the tide, and went on. His bright new boots
whetted and creaked together, the warm wind lifted the broad brim of his sombrero, and his bright new red
shirt was really beautiful, with the green grass and oaks for a background—and so this brave young
man climbed the hill to his mine. Ah, he was so happy!
Suddenly, as he approached the claim, his knees began to smite together, and he felt so weak he could hardly
drag one foot after the other. He threw down his pick; he began to tremble and spin around. The world seemed
to be turning over and over, and he trying in vain to hold on to it. He jerked the pipe from his teeth, and
throwing it down on the bank, he tumbled down too, and clutching at the grass with both hands tried hard, oh!
so hard, to hold the world from slipping from under him.
"Oh, Jim! you are white as snow," cried Madge as she came up.
"White as 'er sunshine, an' blue, an' green too, sisser. Look at brurrer 'all colors,'" piped Little Stumps pitifully.
"Sunstroke," murmured the young man, smiling grimly, like a true Californian. "No; it is not sunstroke,
it's—it's cholera," he added in dismay over his falsehood.
Poor boy! he was sorry for this second lie too. He fairly groaned in agony of body and soul.
Oh, how he did hate that pipe! How he did want to get up and jump on it and smash it into a thousand pieces!
But he could not get up or turn around or move at all without betraying his unmanly secret.
A couple of miners came up, but Jim feebly begged them to go.
"Get out! Leave me!" groaned the young red-shirted miner of the Sierras.
"Yes; it's both," he muttered. "Cholera-nicotine-fantum!" Then he looked at his partner and winked wickedly.
Without a word, he took the limp young miner up in his arms and bore him down the hill to his father's cabin,
while Stumps and Madge ran along at either side, and tenderly and all the time kept asking what was good for
"cholera."
The other old "honest miner" lingered behind to pick up the baleful pipe which he knew was somewhere
there; and when the little party was far enough down the hill, he took it up and buried it in his own capacious
pocket with a half-sorrowful laugh. "Poor little miner," he sighed.
"Don't ever swear any more, Windy," pleaded the boy to the miner who had carried him down the hill, as he
leaned over him, "and don't never lie. I am going to die, Windy, and I should like to be good. Windy, it ain't
sunstroke, it's" ...
The boy turned his face to the wall. The conviction was strong upon him that he was going to die, The world
spun round now very, very fast indeed. Finally, half-rising in bed, he called Little Stumps to his side:
"Stumps, dear, good Little Stumps, if I die don't you never try for to smoke; for that's what's the matter with
me. No, Stumps—dear little brother Stumps—don't you never try for to go the whole of the
'honest miner,' for it can't be did by a boy! We're nothing but boys, you and I, Stumps—Little Stumps."
He sank back in bed and Little Stumps and his sister cried and cried, and kissed him and kissed him.
The miners who had gathered around loved him now, every one, for daring to tell the truth and take the shame
of his folly so bravely.
Windy could stand no more of it. He took Jim's hand with a cheery laugh. "Git well in half an hour," said he,
"now that you've out with the truth."
And so he did. By the time his father came home he was sitting up; and he ate breakfast the next morning as if
nothing had happened. But he never tried to smoke any more as long as he lived. And he never lied, and he
never swore any more.
Oh, no! this Jim that I have been telling you of is "Moral Jim," of the Sierras. The mine? Oh, I almost forgot.
Well, that blue dirt was the old bed of the stream, and it was ten times richer than where the miners were all at
work below. Struck it! I should say so! Ask any of the old Sierras miners about "The Children's Claim," if you
want to hear just how rich they struck it.
JOAQUIN MILLER.
Of spirit undefiled,
Keen Memories of the Thrilling Years That Thronged His Ocean Life.
What stories in my eager ears
PAUL H. HAYNE.
n the early days of Northern Ohio, when settlers were few and far between, Evan Cogswell, a
Welsh lad of sixteen years, found his way thither and began his career as a laborer, receiving at first but two
dollars a month in addition to his board and "home-made" clothing. He possessed an intelligent, energetic
mind in a sound and vigorous body, and had acquired in his native parish the elements of an education in both
Welsh and English.
The story of his life, outlined in a curious old diary containing the records of sixty-two years, and an entry for
more than twenty-two thousand days, would constitute a history of the region, and some of its passages would
read like high-wrought romance.
His first term of service was with a border farmer on the banks of a stream called Grand River, in Ashtabula
County. It was rather crude farming, however, consisting mostly of felling trees, cutting wood and saw-logs,
burning brush, and digging out stumps, the axe and pick-axe finding more use than ordinary farm implements.
Seven miles down the river, and on the opposite bank, lived the nearest neighbors, among them a blacksmith
who in his trade served the whole country for twenty miles around. One especial part of his business was the
repairing of axes, called in that day "jumping," or "upsetting."
In midwinter Evan's employer left a couple of axes with the blacksmith for repairs, the job to be done within a
week. At this time the weather was what is termed "settled," with deep snow, and good "slipping" along the
few wildwood roads.
But three or four days later, there came a "January thaw." Rain and a warmer temperature melted away much
of the snow, the little river was swelled to a great torrent, breaking up the ice and carrying it down stream, and
the roads became almost impassable. When the week was up and the farmer wanted the axes, it was not
possible for the horse to travel, and after waiting vainly for a day or two for a turn in the weather, Evan was
posted off on foot to obtain the needed implements. Delighting in the change and excitement of such a trip,
the boy started before noon, expecting to reach home again ere dark, as it was not considered quite safe to
journey far by night on account of the wolves.
Three miles below, at a narrow place in the river, was the bridge, consisting of three very long tree-trunks
reaching parallel from bank to bank, and covered with hewn plank. When Evan arrived here he found that this
bridge had been swept away. But pushing on down stream among the thickets, about half a mile below, he
came upon an immense ice-jam, stretching across the stream and piled many feet high. Upon this he at once
resolved to make his way over to the road on the other side, for he was already wearied threading the
underbrush. Grand River, which is a narrow but deep and violent stream, ran roaring and plunging beneath the
masses of ice as if enraged at being so obstructed; but the lad picked his path in safety and soon stood on the
opposite bank.
Away he hurried now to the blacksmith's, so as to complete his errand and return by this precarious crossing
But the smith had neglected his duty and Evan had to wait an hour or more for the axes. At length they were
done, and with one tied at each end of a strong cord and this hung about his neck, he was off on the homeward
trip. To aid his walking, he procured from the thicket a stout cane. He had hardly gone two miles when the
duskiness gathering in the woods denoted the nearness of night; yet as the moon was riding high, he pushed
on without fear.
Frequent responses were also heard from more distant points in the woods and from across the river. By this
time it was becoming quite dark, the moonlight penetrating the forest only along the roadway and in
occasional patches among the trees on either side. The rushing river was not far away, but above its roar arose
every instant the threatening howl of a wolf. Finally, just as he reached the ice-bridge, the howling became
still, a sign that their numbers emboldened them to enter in earnest on the pursuit. The species of wolf once so
common in the central States, and making the early farmers so much trouble, were peculiar in this respect;
they were great cowards singly, and would trail the heels of a traveler howling for recruits, and not daring to
begin the attack until they had collected a force that insured success; then they became fierce and bold, and
more to be dreaded than any other animal of the wilderness. And at this point, when they considered their
numbers equal to the occasion, the howling ceased.
Evan had been told of this, and when the silence began, he knew its meaning, and his heart shuddered at the
prospect. His only hope lay in the possibility that they might not dare to follow him across the ice-bridge. But
this hope vanished as he approached the other shore, and saw by the moonlight several of the gaunt creatures
awaiting him on that side. What should he do? No doubt they would soon muster boldness to follow him upon
the ice, and then his fate would be sealed in a moment.
In the emergency he thought of the axes, and taking them from his neck, cut the cord, and thrust his
walking-stick into one as a helve, resolved to defend himself to the last.
At this instant he espied among the thick, upheaved ice-cakes two great fragments leaning against each other
in such a way as to form a roof with something like a small room underneath. Here he saw his only chance.
Springing within, he used the axe to chip off other fragments with which to close up the entrance, and almost
quicker than it can be told, had thus constructed a sort of fort, which he believed would withstand the attack of
the wolves. At nightfall the weather had become colder, and he knew that in a few minutes the damp pieces of
ice would be firmly cemented together.
Hardly had he lifted the last piece to its place, when the pack came rushing about him, snapping and snarling,
but at first not testing the strength of his intrenchment. When soon they began to spring against it, and snap at
the corners of ice, the frost had done its work, and they could not loosen his hastily built wall.
Through narrow crevices he could look out at them, and at one time counted sixteen grouped together in
council. As the cold increased he had to keep in motion in order not to freeze, and any extra action on his part
increased the fierceness of the wolves. At times they would gather in a circle around him, and after sniffing at
him eagerly, set up a doleful howling, as if deploring the excellent supper they had lost.
Ere long one of them found an opening at a corner large enough to admit its head; but Evan was on the alert,
and gave it such a blow with the axe as to cause its death. Soon another tried the same thing, and met with the
same reception, withdrawing and whirling around several times, and then dropping dead with a broken skull.
One smaller than the rest attempting to enter, and receiving the fatal blow, crawled, in its dying agony,
completely into the enclosure, and lay dead at Evan's feet. Of this he was not sorry, as his feet were bitterly
cold, and the warm carcass of the animal served to relieve them.
Of his thoughts during the night, a quotation from his diary is quaintly suggestive and characteristic.
"I bethought me of the wars of Glendower, which I have read about, and the battle of Grosmont Castle; and I
said, 'I am Owen Glendower; this is my castle; the wolves are the army of Henry; but I will never surrender or
yield as did Glendower.'"
Toward morning, as the change of weather continued, and the waters of the river began to diminish, there was
suddenly a prodigious crack and crash of the ice-bridge, and the whole mass settled several inches. At this the
wolves took alarm, and in an instant fled. Perhaps they might have returned had not the crackling of the ice
been repeated frequently.
At length Evan became alarmed for his safety, lest the ice should break up in the current, and bringing his axe
to bear, soon burst his way out and fled to the shore. But not seeing the ice crumble, he ventured back to
obtain the other axe, and then hastened home to his employer.
During the day he skinned the wolves, and within a fortnight pocketed the bounty money, amounting in all to
about one hundred and fifty dollars. With this money he made the first payment on a large farm, which he
long lived to cultivate and enjoy, and under the sod of which he found a quiet grave.
IRVING L. BEMAN.
HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX. 134
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And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX. 135
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Our Boys, by Various
'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.
ROBERT BROWNING.
HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX. 136
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A HERO.
hey were sitting by the great blazing wood-fire. It was July, but there was an east wind and the
night was chilly. Besides, Mrs. Heath had a piece of fresh pork to roast. Squire Blake had "killed" the day
before—that was the term used to signify the slaughter of any domestic animal for food—and
had distributed the "fresh" to various families in town, and Mrs. Heath wanted hers for the early breakfast.
Meat was the only thing to be had in plenty—meat and berries. Wheat and corn, and vegetables even,
were scarce. There had been a long winter, and then, too, every family had sent early in the season all they
could possibly spare to the Continental army. As to sugar and tea and molasses, it was many a day since they
had had even the taste of them.
The piece of pork was suspended from the ceiling by a stout string, and slowly revolved before the fire,
Dorothy or Arthur giving it a fresh start when it showed signs of stopping. There was a settle at right angles
with the fireplace, and here the little cooks sat, Dorothy in the corner nearest the fire, and Arthur curled up on
the floor at her feet, where he could look up the chimney and see the moon, almost at the full, drifting through
the sky. At the opposite corner sat Abram, the hired man and faithful keeper of the family in the absence of its
head, at work on an axe helve, while Bathsheba, or "Basha," as she was briefly and affectionately called, was
spinning in one corner of the room just within range of the firelight.
There was no other light—the firelight being sufficient for their needs—and it was necessary to
economize in candles, for any day a raid from the royal army might take away both cattle and sheep, and then
where would the tallow come from for the annual fall candle-making? There was a rumor—Abram had
brought it home that very day—that the royal army were advancing, and red coats might make their
appearance in Hartland at any time. Arthur and Dorothy were talking about it, as they turned the roasting fork.
"Wish I was a man," said Arthur, glancing towards his mother, who was sitting in a low splint chair knitting
stockings for her boy's winter wear. "I'd like to shoot a red coat."
"O Arty!" exclaimed Dorothy reproachfully; "you're always thinking of shooting! Now I should like to nurse a
sick soldier and wait upon him. Poor soldiers! it was dreadful what papa wrote to mamma about them."
"Yes," said Dorothy. "Though of course I should rather, a great deal rather, nurse one of our own soldiers.
But, Arty," continued the little elder sister, "papa says if we must fight, why, we must fight bravely, but that
we can be brave without fighting."
"Well, I mean to be a hero, and heroes always fight. King Arthur fought. Papa said so. He and his knights
fought for the Sangreal, and liberty is our Sangreal. I'm glad my name is Arthur, anyhow, for Arthur means
noble and high," he said, lifting his bright boyish face with its steadfast blue eyes, and glancing again towards
his mother. She gave an answering smile.
"I hope my boy will always be noble and high in thought and deed. But, as papa said, to be a hero one does
not need to fight, at least, not to fight men. We can fight bad tempers and bad thoughts and cowardly
A HERO. 137
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impulses. They who fight these things successfully are the truest heroes, my boy."
"Ah, but mamma, didn't I hear you tell grandmamma how you were proud of your hero. That's what you
called papa when General Montgomery wrote to you, with his own hand, how he drove back the enemy at the
head of his men, while the balls were flying and the cannons roaring and flashing; and when his horse was
shot under him how he struggled out and cheered on his men, on foot, and the bullets whizzed and the men
fell all around him, and he wasn't hurt and"—Here the boy stopped abruptly and sprang impulsively
forward, for his mother's cheek had suddenly grown pale.
"True grit!" remarked Abram to Basha, in an undertone, as she paused in her walk to and fro by the
spinning-wheel to join a broken thread. "But there never was a coward yet, man or woman, 'mong the Heaths,
an' I've known 'em off an' on these seventy year. Now there was ole Gineral Heath," he continued, holding up
the axe helve and viewing it critically with one eye shut, "he was a marster hand for fightin'. Fit the Injuns 's
though he liked it. That gun up there was his'n."
"Tell us about the 'sassy one,'" said Arthur, turning at the word gun.
"Youngster, 'f I've told yer that story once, I've told yer fifty times," said Abram.
"Tell it again," said the boy eagerly. "And take down the gun, too."
Abram got up as briskly as his seventy years and his rheumatism would permit, and took down the gun from
above the mantel-piece. It was a very large one.
"Not quite so tall as the old Gineral himself," said Abram, "but a purty near to it. This gun is 'bout seven feet,
an' yer gran'ther was seven feet two—a powerful built man. Wall, the Injuns had been mighty
obstreperous 'long 'bout that time, burnin' the Widder Brown's house and her an' her baby a-hidin' in a holler
tree near by, an' carryin' off critters an' bosses, an' that day yer gran'ther was after 'em with a posse o' men, an'
what did that pesky Injun do but git up on a rock a quarter o' a mile off an' jestickerlate in an outrigerous
manner, like a sarcy boy, an' yer grand'ther, he took aim and fired, an' that impident Injun jest tumbel over
with a yell; his last, mind ye, and good enough for him!"
As Abram was restoring the gun to its place upon the hooks, a sound was heard at the side door—a
sound as of a heavy body falling against it, which startled them all. The dog Cæsar rose, and going to the door
which opened into the side entry, sniffed along the crack above the threshold. Apparently satisfied, he barked
softly, and rising on his hind legs lifted the latch and sprang into the entry. Abram followed with Basha. As he
lifted the latch of the outer door—the string had been drawn in early, as was the custom in those
troublous time—and swung it back, the light from the fire fell upon the figure of a man lying across the
doorstone.
"Sakes alive!" exclaimed Abram, drawing back. But at a word from the mistress, they lifted the man and
brought him in and laid him down on the braided woollen mat before the fire. Then for a moment there was
silence, for he wore the dress of a British soldier, and his right arm was bandaged. He had fainted from loss of
blood, apparently—perhaps from hunger. Basha loosened his coat at the throat, and tried to force a drop
or two of "spirits" into his mouth, while Mrs. Heath rubbed his hands.
"He ain't dead," said Basha, in a grim tone, "and mind you, we'll see trouble from this." Basha was an arrant
rebel, and hated the very sight of a red coat. "What are you doing here," she continued, addressing him,
"killin' honest folks, when you'd better 've staid cross seas in yer own country?"
But Basha as she unwound the tight bandage from the shattered arm, kept muttering to herself like a rising
tempest, until at length the man having come quite to himself, detected her feeling, and with great effort said,
"I am not a British soldier."
"Then what to goodness have you got on their uniform for?" queried Basha.
Little by little the pitiful story was told. He was an American soldier who had been doing duty as a spy in the
British camp. Up to the very last day of his stay he had not been suspected; but trying to get away he was
suspected, challenged, and fired at. The shot passed through his arm. He was certain his pursuers had followed
him till night, and they would be likely to continue the search the next day, and he begged Mrs. Heath to
secrete him for a day or two, if possible.
"I wouldn't mind being shot, marm," he said, "but you know they'll hang me if they get me. Of course I risked
it when I went into their camp, but it's none the pleasanter for all that."
Now in the old Heath house there was a secret chamber, built in the side of the chimney. Most of those old
colonial houses had enormous chimneys, that took up, sometimes, a quarter of the ground occupied by the
house, so it was not a difficult thing to enclose a small space with slight danger of its existence being detected.
This chimney chamber in the Heath house was little more than a closet eight feet by four. It was entered from
the north chamber, Abram's room, through a narrow sliding panel that looked exactly like the rest of the wall,
which was of cedar boards. An inch-wide shaft running up the side of the chimney ventilated the closet, and it
was lighted by a window consisting of three small panes of glass carefully concealed under the projecting
roof. In a sunny day one could see to read there easily.
A small cot-bed was now carried into this room, and up there, after his wound had been dressed by Basha,
who, like many old-time women, was skilful in dressing wounds and learned in the properties of herbs and
roots, and he had been fed and bathed, the soldier was taken; and a very grateful man he was as he settled
himself upon the comfortable bed and looked up with a smiling "thank you," into Basha's face, which was no
longer grim and forbidding.
All this time no special notice had been taken of Dorothy and Arthur. They had followed about to watch the
bathing, feeding and tending, and when Mrs. Heath turned to leave the secret chamber, she found them behind
her, staring in with very wide-open eyes indeed; for, if you can believe it, they never before had even heard of,
much less seen, this lovely little secret chamber. It was never deemed wise in colonial families to talk about
these hiding-places, which sometimes served so good a purpose, and I doubt if many adults in the town of
Hartland knew of this secret chamber in the Heath house.
The panel was closed, and Abram was left to care for the wounded soldier through the night. It was nine
o'clock, the colonial hour for going to bed, and long past the children's hour, and Dotty and Arthur in their
prayers by their mother's knee, put up a petition for the safety of the stranger.
"Would they hang him if they could get him, mamma?" asked Arty.
"Certainly," she replied. "It is one of the rules of warfare. A spy is always hung."
In the morning, from nine to eleven, Mrs. Heath always devoted to the children's lessons. Arthur, who was
eleven, was a good Latin scholar. He was reading Cæsar's Commentaries, and he liked it—that is, he
liked the story part. He found some of it pretty tough reading, and I need not tell you boys who have read
Cæsar, what parts those were. They had English readings from the Spectator, and from Bishop Leighton's
After dinner, at twelve, they had the afternoon for play. That afternoon, the day after the soldier came, they
went berrying. They did this almost every day during berry time, so as to have what they liked better than
anything for supper—berries and milk. Occasionally they had huckleberry "slap-jacks," also a favorite
dish, for breakfast; not often, however, as flour was scarce.
They went for berries down the road known as South Lane, a lonely place, but where berries grew plentifully.
Their mother had cautioned them not to talk about the occurrence of the night before, as some one might
overhear, and so, though they talked about their play and their studies, about papa and his soldiers, they said
nothing about the soldier.
"Tell Me, My Little Man," Said He, "Where You Saw the British Uniform."
They had nearly filled their baskets, when a growl from Cæsar startled them, and turning, they saw two
horsemen who had stopped near by, one of whom was just springing from his horse. They were in British
uniform, and the children at once were sure what they wanted.
"O Arty, Arty!" whispered Dorothy. "They've come, and we mustn't tell."
The man advanced with a smile meant to be pleasant, but which was in reality so sinister that the children
shrank with a sensation of fear.
"How are you, my little man? Picking berries, eh? And where do you live?" he asked.
"And don't you live with papa too? Where is papa?" the man asked.
Arthur hesitated an instant, and then out it came, and proudly too. "In the Continental army, sir."
"Ho! ho! and so we are a little rebel, are we?" laughed the man. "And who am I? Do you know?"
"You cannot have seen many British soldiers here," said the man. "Did you ever see the British uniform
before?"
"And where did you see it?" he asked, glancing sharply at Arthur and then at Dorothy. Upon the face of the
latter was a look of dismay, for she had foreseen the drift of the man's questions and the trap into which Arty
had fallen. He, too, saw it, now he was in. The only British uniform he had ever seen was that worn by the
American spy. For a brief moment he was tempted to tell a lie. Then he said firmly, "I cannot tell you, sir."
"Cannot! Does that mean will not?" said the man threateningly. Then he put his hand into his pocket and took
out a bright gold sovereign, which he held before Arthur.
"Come, now, my little man, tell me where you saw the British soldier's uniform, and you shall have this gold
piece."
But all the noble impulses of the boy's nature, inherited and strengthened by his mother's teachings, revolted at
this attempt to bribe him. His eyes flashed. He looked the man full in the face. "I will not!" said he.
"Come, come!" cried out the man on horseback. "Don't palter any longer with the little rebel. We'll find a way
to make him tell. Up with him!"
In an instant the man had swung Arthur into his saddle, and leaping up behind him, struck spurs to his horse
and dashed away. Cæsar, who had been sniffing about, suspicious, but uncertain, attempted to leap upon the
horseman in the rear, but he, drawing his pistol from his saddle, fired, and Cæsar dropped helpless.
The horsemen quickly vanished, and for a moment Dorothy stood pale and speechless. Then she knelt down
by Cæsar, examined his wound—he was shot in the leg—and bound it up with her handkerchief,
just as she saw Basha do the night before, and then putting her arms around his neck she kissed him. "Be
patient, dear old Cæsar, and Abram shall come for you!"
Covered with dust, her frock stained with Cæsar's blood, a pitiful sight indeed was Dorothy as she burst into
the kitchen where Basha was preparing supper.
"O mamma, they've carried off Arty and shot Cæsar, those dreadful, dreadful British!"
Between her sobs she told the whole fearful story to the two women—fearful, I say, for Mrs. Heath
knew too well the reputed character of the British soldiery, not to fear the worst if her boy should persist in
refusing to tell where he had seen the British soldier's uniform. But even in her distress she was conscious of a
proud faith that he would not betray his trust.
As to Basha, who shall describe her horror and indignation? "The wretches! ain't they content to murder our
men and burn our houses, that they must take our innercent little boys?" and she struck the spit into the
chicken she was preparing for supper vindictively, as though thus she would like to treat the whole British
army. "The dear little cretur! what'll he do to-night without his mamma, and him never away from her a night
in his blessed life. 'Pears to me the Lord's forgot the Colonies. O dearie, dearie me!" utterly overcome she
dropped into a chair, and throwing her homespun check apron over her head, she gave way to such a fit of
weeping as astonished and perplexed Abram, one of whose principal articles of faith it was that Basha
couldn't shed a tear, even if she tried, "more'n if she's made o' cast iron."
It indeed looked hopeless. Who was to follow after these men and rescue Arthur? There was hardly any one
left in town but old men, women and children.
Mrs. Heath thought of this as she soothed Dorothy, coaxed her to eat a little supper, and then sat by her side
until she fell asleep. She sat by the fire while the embers died out, or walked up and down the long, lonely
kitchen, wrestling, like Jacob, in prayer, for her boy, until long after midnight.
And now let us follow Arthur's fortunes. The men galloped hard and long over hills, through valleys and
woods, so far away it seemed to the little fellow he could never possibly see mamma or Dorothy again. At last
they drew up at a large white house, evidently the headquarters of the officers, and Arthur was put at once into
a dark closet and there left. He was tired and dreadfully hungry, so hungry that he could think of hardly
anything else. He heard the rattling of china and glasses, and knew they were at supper. By and by a servant
came and took him into the supper room. His eyes were so dazzled at first by the change from the dark closet
to the well-lighted room, that he could scarcely see. But when the daze cleared he found himself standing near
the head of the table, where sat a stout man with a red face, a fierce mustache, and an evil pair of eyes.
He looked at Arthur a moment. Then he poured out a glass of wine and pushed it towards him: "Drink!"
"I have promised mamma never to drink wine," was the low response.
It seemed to poor Arthur as though everything had combined against him. It was bad enough to have to say no
to the question about the uniform, and now here was something else that would make the men still more angry
with him. But the officer did not push his command; he simply thrust the glass one side and said, "Now, my
boy, we're going to get that American spy and hang him. You know where he is and you've got to tell us, or it
will be the worse for you. Do you want to see your mother again?"
Arthur did not answer. He could not have answered just then. A big bunch came into his throat. Cry? Not
before these men. So he kept silence.
"Obstinate little pig! speak!" thundered the officer, bringing his great brawny fist down upon the table with a
blow that set the glasses dancing. "Will you tell me where that spy is?"
"No, sir," came in very low, but very firm tones. I will not tell you the dreadful words of that officer, as he
turned to his servant with the command, "Put him down cellar, and we'll see to him in the morning. They're all
alike, men, women and children. Rebellion in the very blood. The only way to finish it is to spill it without
mercy."
Now there was one thing that Arthur, brave as he was, feared, and that was—rats! Left on a heap of dry
straw, he began to wonder if there were rats there. Presently he was sure he heard something move, but he was
quickly reassured by the touch of soft, warm fur on his hand, and the sound of a melodious "pur-r." The
friendly kitty, glad of a companion, curled herself by his side. What comfort she brought to the lonely little
fellow! He lay down beside her, and saying his Our Father, and Now I Lay Me, was soon in a profound sleep,
the purring little kitty nestling close.
The sounds of revelry in the rooms above did not disturb him. The boisterous songs and laughter, the
stamping of many feet, continued far into the night. At last they ceased; and when everything had been for a
long time silent, the door leading to the cellar was softly opened and a lady came down the stairway. I have
often wished that I might paint her as she looked coming down those stairs. Arthur was afterwards my
great-grandfather, you know, and he told me this story when I was a young girl in my teens. He told me how
lovely this lady was.
Her gown was of some rich stuff that shimmered in the light of the candle she carried, and rustled musically
as she walked. There was a flash of jewels at her throat and on her hands. She had wrapped a crimson mantle
about her head and shoulders. Her eyes were like stars on a summer's night, sparkling with a veiled radiance,
and as she stood and looked down upon the sleeping boy, a smile, sweet, but full of a profound sadness,
played upon her lips. Then a determined look came into her bright eyes.
He stirred in his sleep, laughed out, said "mamma," and then opened his eyes. She stooped and touched his
lips with her finger. "Hush! Speak only in a whisper. Eat this, and then I will take you to your mother."
After he had eaten, she wrapped a cloak about him, and together they stole up and out past the sleeping,
drunken sentinel, to the stables. She lead out a white horse, her own horse, Arthur was sure, for the creature
caressed her with his head, and as she saddled him she talked to him in low tones, sweet, musical words of
some foreign tongue. The handsome horse seemed to understand the necessity of silence, for he did not even
whinny to the touch of his mistress' hand, and trod daintily and noiselessly as she led him to the mounting
block, his small ears pricking forward and backward, as though knowing the need of watchful listening.
Leaping to the saddle and stooping, she lifted Arthur in front of her, and with a word they were off. A slow
walk at first, and then a rapid canter. Arthur never forgot that long night ride with the beautiful lady on the
white horse, over the country flooded with the brilliancy of the full moon. Once or twice she asked him if he
was cold, as she drew the cloak more closely about him, and sometimes she would murmur softly to herself
words in that silvery, foreign tongue. As they drew near Hartland, she asked him to point out his father's
house, and when they were quite near, only a little distance off, she stopped the horse.
"I leave you here, you brave, darling boy," she said. "Kiss me once, and then jump down. And don't forget
me."
Arthur threw his arms around her neck and kissed her, first on one cheek and then on the other, and looking
up into the beautiful face with its starry eyes, said:
"I will never, never forget you, for you are the loveliest lady I ever saw—except mamma."
She laughed a pleased laugh, like a child, then took a ring from her hand and put it on one of Arthur's fingers.
Her hand was so slender it fitted his chubby little hand very well.
"Keep this," she said, "and by and by give it to some lady good and true, like mamma."
"Will you be punished?" he said, keeping her hand. She laughed again, with a proud, daring toss of her dainty
head, and rode away.
Arthur watched her out of sight, and then turned towards home. Mrs. Heath was still keeping her lonely
watch, when the latch of the outer door was softly lifted—nobody had the heart to take in the string
with Arty outside—the inner door swung noiselessly back, and the blithe voice said, "Mamma!
mamma! here I am, and I didn't tell."
All that day, and the next, and the next, the Heath household were in momentary expectation of the coming of
the red coats to search for the spy. Dorothy and Arthur, and sometimes Abram, did picket duty to give
seasonable warning of their approach. But they never came. In a few days news was brought that the British
forces, on the very morning after Arthur's return, had made a rapid retreat before an advance of the Federal
troops, and never again was a red coat seen in Hartland. The spy got well in great peace and comfort under
Basha's nursing, and went back again to do service in the Continental army, and Dotty used to say, "You did
learn, didn't you, Arty, how a person, even a little boy, can be a hero without fighting, just as mamma said?"
He wanted a velocipede,
He thought of it in daytime,
He dreamed of it in bed,
He wanted a velocipede!
He wanted a velocipede,
He wanted a velocipede,
He wanted a velocipede
He wanted a velocipede!
On a velocipede!
M.E.B.
JOJO'S PETITION.
RUTH HALL.
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